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k^ 


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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


I    *» 

1 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

M/mSe^tifisanik. 


■^i>»'^c;4<ltU^-sk^ipttj^.  .  •«  -,«.. 


SERAPH 


^<^" 


'  SHE  RAISED  THE  VIOLIN  TO  HER  SHOULDER." 


J 


I- 


■^^. 


Seraph 


THE    LITTLE    VIOLINIST 


/ 


BY 


MRS.    C.   V,  JAMISON 

A$Mor  of  "Lady  Jme,"  "  TointUis  Philif,"  tic,  He. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

FRANK  T.  MERRILL 


•>'  "flVTr^-x 


JUl    %  1"^* 


^ 


BOSTON,  U.S.A. 

W.  A.  WILDE  &  COMPANY 

35  Bromfield  Street 


STiH^-^ 


K 


\ 


^ 


COPYRIOHT,  I«96. 
BY  W.  A.  WILDE  &  COMPANY. 

AUriihUrtinvti. 
SERAPH. 


I  1 


3'/;7y 


f\ 


^ 

o 


CONTENTS. 

w 

Unolk  'Nidas ,       • 

The  Littlb  Violinhtb     .        .        .        ,        ,        .        .      H 

Petite  Mamait jj 

A  Little  Wharf  Rat ^ 

MAmc 35 

Bon-boms  proii  Paris 42 

Their  Little  Hibtort qq 

Cousin  Franz 53 

A  German  Interior  .        .        .        ,        .88 

Friends  All 71 

An  Appreciative  Addiencb  .        ,        ...        .84 

Two  Customers 91 

A  Disappointment 99 

Madame  Croizet's  Gbnerobitt iQg 

Without  Winos ,'      .    118 

The  Wounded  Bird         .        .        .        .        .  .126 

Peach  Blossoms 133 

Seraph's  Secret 141 

5 


» 


oaArrn 
XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 


CONTENTS, 

ftam 

8KHAfH'l  PROrtUOB IM 

A    I>II.KMMA .          .           t  167 

HlCKAI'll'll    FfiTK           . IM 

A  Dui'iiLK  HuccBU 178 

A  Nkw  Liric IW 

Kumko'n  Conpbbsion       ..•••••  167 

Thk  Whitk  Ship IW 

In  Danukh 206 

A  LiTTLB  IIkho •       «  816 

At  Madamk  St.  Maxent's W8 

Thk  Rbvolt  ok  Mauuk 881 

FotNU 240 

Ik  thk  Fold    .........  248 

Maubiob  and  Shylocic  .        .       .        .       .        .       .266 

A  Littlk  Romancb         .,,....  266 

Prbfaration 274 

A  Soiree  Music  alb        .......  281 

A  Lktteh  from  Pabm 293 


ii 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


MOI 


"  She  raised  the  violin  to  her  shoulder  '♦  .       Frontiapiece  18 

" '  Won't  you  come  in  and  look  at  the  pretty  things  ?  "' .  48 

Madame  St.  Maxent  visits  Monsieur  Nardi's  shop  .        .  94 

"  Seraph  grew  very  fond  of  the  Cremona  "      .        .        .  jgy 

"As  they  entered,  a  pleasant-faced,  well-dressed  woman 

came  forward,  bowing,  smiling "       .        ,        .        .244 


^^%  i  /f^/kj^^'\^-^v 


;^^pg{^'^ 


s* 


ii 

I 


Ii 


SERAPH,   THE   LITTLE   VIOLINISTE. 


<»»{o 


I. 


UNCLE   'nIDAS. 

"jyrONSIEUR   LEONIDAS  NARDI  had  just  re- 
turned  home  to   New  Orleans,  to  his  little 
bookshop  on  St.  Louis  Street,  after  an  absence  of 
several  months. 

He  had  made  the  journey  of  his  life,  tiie  journey 
he  had  dreamed  of  during  his  boyhood,   when   he 
had  stolen  a  few  moments  from  an  exacting  mas- 
ter to  glance  into  the  books  of  travel   that  helped 
fill  the  shelves  in  the  little  bookstore  where,  from 
a  small,   ill-paid,  ill-fed  drudge,  he  had  grown   to 
manhood,  and  where   he  had  acquired  the   knowl- 
edge   that    for    many    years    had    made    him    the 
owner  of    the   shop,   as  well   as   an   authority   on 
bibliography;    where,   at  last,   he  had   gained    the 
wealth  that  enabled  him  to  spend  a  few   months 
in  Paris,  a  city  which,  to  see,  had  been,  for  long 
years,  his  hope  and  ambition. 


10 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


He  was  a  homely  little  man,  with  a  benevolent, 
placid  face,  and  a  thoughtful,  scholarly  manner,  — 
the  manner  of  one  who  lives   among  books.     In 
fact,    in    his    neat    brown   suit,    with    his    closely 
shaven,  parchment-like  face,  he  did  not  look  un- 
like   one    of    his    own   old-fashioned,   russet-bound 
volumes.     He  had  never  married,  and,  as  far  as 
he    knew,  he  had  not    a   relative  in  the  world; 
he  lived  quite   alone   in  the   high,   narrow  rooms 
over  his  shop,   and  having  the  gentlest,  kindliest 
nature  that  was  ever  given  to  one  with  no  natural 
outlets    for    his    affections,    he    worshipped  books, 
music,  children,  and  animals;  he  was  Xonde  'Nidas, 
the  confidant  and  friend  of  most  of  the  little  ones 
in  the  neighborhood.      It  was  really  touching  to 
see  the  joy  of  the  children  who  crowded  into  his 
shop  to  welcome  him  home. 

"  Oh !  oncle  'Nidas,  you  are  welcome,"  they  cried 
with  one  voice,  clasping  and  kissing  his  hands. 

«  Ah !  Lucie,  ma  cBre  petite,  glad  to  see  me  back, 
n'est  ce  pas?  and,  my  little  pale  Jacques,  how  is  the 
lame  hip,  mon  enfant  ?  and  Henri,  the  naughtiest 
of  all,  as  red  as  a  crevisse.  Your  maman  has  fed 
you  well.  Why,  Fifine,  your  cheeks  shine  like 
cherries.      Qui,   oui!   I've  got  something  for  you. 


UNCLE  'NIDAS. 


II 


benevolent, 
manner,  — 
books.  In 
liis  closely 
t  look  un- 
usset-bound 

as  far  as 
the  world ; 
row  rooms 
it,  kindliest 

no  natural 
Dped  books, 
nde  'Nidas, 
}  little  ones 
touching  to 
led  into  his 

"  they  cried 
is  hands, 
see  me  back, 
J,  how  is  the 
e  naughtiest 
man  has  fed 
s  shine  like 
ing  for  you, 


Nanette.     "Wait  until  I  unpack  my  boxes,  and  you 
shall  see.     Joujous?    ^^,  om,  half  the  toys  in  Paris 
—I  tried  to  remember  you  all.     Now  run   away 
until  to-morrow,  and  you  shall  see,  you  shall  see.-" 
Then   there  was  Monkey,  his  little   terrier,   who 
sprang    into    his    arms    in    wild   delight,   and    his 
tiny  marmoset,  Toto,  who  sat  on  his  shoulder  and 
patted    his    cheek    with    almost    human    affection. 
And   his   mocking-bird.    Flute,   who   tumbled   from 
perch  to  perch  as  though  he  were  dizzy,  uttering 
a  series  of  little  cackling  cries  which  sounded  like 
immoderate    laughter.      They   were  all   so  happy, 
that  even   his  old  servant    Cressy,  an    intelligent 
French    quadroon,   forgot    to    be    formal   and   top- 
lofty while  serving  the  dinner,  and  fluttered  about 
nervously,  clattering  the  plates  and  forks,  an  un- 
usual occurrence  for  one  of  such  severe  decorum. 

"Now,  Cressy,"  said  Monsieur  Nardi,  as  he 
seated  himself  before  a  savory  fricassk,  flanked  on 
one  side  with  a  dish  of  snowy  rice,  and  on  the 
other  with  his  favorite  salad  of  shrimp,  "I  feel 
myself  at  home  again.  I  haven't  seen  such  a/n- 
cassk  since  I  went  away,  and  such  rice!  Paris  is 
a  great  city,  a  beautiful  city,  yet  they  can't  cook 
rice  there;   but  oh,  the  books!  the  books!     They 


-i 

f 


ij  SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

can  well  afEord  to  do  without  rice  properly  cooked 
when  they  have    miles  and    miles  of    old    hooks. 
Such  books !     Oh !  1  was  intoxicated,  I  was  greedy, 
to  have    them.      Ah!    Cressy,  I  am  a  vrai  bou- 
qummr.     I  spent  my  days,  and  most  of  my  nights, 
in  the   Qmrtii^  Latin,  and  on  the  Quai  Voltaire, 
and  what  a  feast !     I  never  thought  of  rice.     Yes, 
I  ate,  I  suppose  I  ate ;  but  of   what   I   don't   re- 
member.    Perhaps  it  was  good,  but  it  made   no 
impression.      Well,   I    improved    my  time,  and    I 
brought    back    some    treasures.      When   I  unpack 
my  boxes,  you  shall  see.     Now,  Cressy,  ma  bonne 
femme,  tell  me  everything  that  has  happened  m 
the  neighborhood  since  I  went  away." 

«  Par  exemple  !  Monsieur  Leonidas,  as  if  1  could 
remember  everything.     But  let  me  think -since 
you  went  away -let  me  think.    Well,  monsieur, 
Pierre  has  married  the  baker's  widow,  after  all,  and 
Madame  the  widow  Tontine  has  gone  to  live  with 
her  daughter  in  the  country.     Then   Heloise,   the 
eldest  girl  of  the  florist,  is  Jianc^  to  a  petU  crevisse, 
who  earns  only  twenty  dollars  a  month,  and  wears 
such  a  big  pin  in  his  cravat.     A  merciful  Provi- 
dence watches  over  the  blind  and  the   foolish,  or 
such  no  account  people  would  perish;   and  little 


r 

a 
b 

y 

V 

a 
c 

n 
tl 


UNCLE  'NIDAS. 


13 


rly  cooked 
old    hooks. 
iras  greedy, 
vrai  hou- 
my  nights, 
li  Voltaire, 
rice.     Yes, 
[  don't  re- 
t  made   no 
me,  and    I 
I   I  unpack 
,  ma  honne 
lappened  in 

IS  if  1  could 
link  —  since 
1,  monsieur, 
ifter  all,  and 
to  live  with 
Heloise,   the 
petit  crevisse, 
1,  and  wears 
rciful  Provi- 
B   foolish,  or 
i:   and  little 


Jean,  who  is  always  in  trouble,  swallowed  a  dime. 
It  stuck  in  his  throat,  and  the  doctor  came  to  get 
it  out,  when  luckily  it  went  down,  but  his  foolish 
old   tante  cried,   because  she  had   saved  it  for  an 
offering  and  didn't  want  to  lose  it.     Then  Victor, 
the  wood  merchant,  cut  off  his  finger  while  mak' 
ing  kindling,  and  the  bijoutihre  on  the  corner  was 
broken  into  while  Madame  was  away;  the  thieve.s 
took   a   bag   which    they   thought   full   of    money, 
and  there  was  nothing  in  it  but  rusty  steel  thim- 
bles.    The  other  day  the  old  Italian  cobbler  across 
the  way  got  a  fine  scare.      He   bought  a  dollar 
lottery    ticket,    and    three    nines    came    out;    he 
looked    at  his    ticket,   and,   ha-ha,   he    had    three 
nines,  so  he  ran,  in  his  stocking  feet,  bare-headed, 
all  the  way  to  the  bureau,  and  showed   his  num- 
bers, trembling  so  that  he  couldn't  speak.      'But, 
my  friend,'  the  clerk  said,  < these  are  three  sixes; 
you    looked    at   your   ticket    upside   down.'      The 
poor  cobbler  had  to  be  helped  home.    Hh  Men,  he 
was  too  eager  to  get  money  without  working  for 
it.     I  wonder  if  I've  thought  of  everything,"  and 
Cressy  paused  with  her  finger  on  her  lip.     "Why, 
no  indeed,  I  came  near  forgetting  to  tell  you  that 
the  cottage  next  door  is  let  at  last." 


i!l' 


li! 


I 


^  SEBAPN,    TffE  UTTLE    yiOUmSTE 

.Fmimen^?"  said  Mon.ieur  Nardi,  with  more 
interest  than  he  had  yet  displayed  while  hster^ing 
to  Cressy's  news.     ''It  has  been   vacant  so  long; 

to  whom  is  it  let  ?  " 

uTo  a  widow  and  her  little  girl,  monsieur.    The 
ladv  is  very  lame  and  never  goes  out." 
^fDo  you  know  who  they  are?  the  lady's  name, 

I  mean."  ,  .  „i 

"  No,  monsieur,  I  don't  know  her  name ;  but 
I  „a,  told  that  her  husband  was  a  German  who 
played  the  violin  in  a  wonderful  manner.  He 
died  a  while  ago  suddenly,  and  they  say  tha 
„adame  was  a  singer,  or  «>methmg,  before  she 
had  a  stroke  of  numb  palsy." 

.Ah!  then  she  is  unable  to  follow  her  profes- 
sion "  said  Monsieur  Nardi,  between  two  mouth- 
fuls'of  salad.  "  I  hope  her  husband  saved  some- 
thing,  or  they  are  likely  to  be  very  poor. 

"Musical  people  never  do  take  care  of  the.r 
„„„ey,"  returned  Cressy,  with  an  a.r  of  wjadom 
"and  I'm  pretty  sure  that  he  was  Uke  all  the 
others,  for  they  didn't  move  much  «— ^/^ 
though  it  was  good  what  there  was  «"■-''; 
piano.  These  people  must  have  mus  o  .f  th^ 
Lve  nothing  to  eat.    The  only  servant  they  have 


UNCLE  WJDAS. 


If 


with  more 
[e  listening 
t  so  long; 

sieur.    The 

idy's  name, 

name ;  but 
rerman  who 
anner.  He 
>y  say  that 
before  she 

'  her  profes- 
two  mouth- 
saved  some- 
loor." 

ire  of  their 
f  of  wisdom, 
like  all  the 
furniture,  al- 
of  it,  and  a 
lusic  if  they 
ant  they  have 


is  an  old  colored  man.  He's  old,  but  they  say  he's 
a  good  cook,  and  a  handy  honest  creature,  and 
devoted  to  the  little  girl  ;  and  she,  poor  child,  is 
that  shabby  that  one  can  tell  her  clothes  are  made 
up  of  old  scraps,  although  she's  always  clean  and 
tidy.  Yes,  I'm  sure  they  are  poor,  and  I  think 
they  are  as  proud  as  they  are  poor." 

"  How  sad  for  the  child,"  murmured  Monsieur 
Nardi.  He  was  thinking  of  his  own  poverty-stricken 
childhood,  and  the  little  patched  garments  he  had 
worn. 

"  Oh,  she  isn't  sad  ;  she's  as  gay  as  a  bird,  and  she 
plays  the  violin  like  a  little  witch,"  returned  Cressy, 
as  she  removed  the  plates.  "  From  the  window  of 
your  chamber  you  can  look  down  into  their  yard 
and  see  that  child  cutting  capers  to  make  you  die 
of  laughing." 

Just  at  that  moment  there  came  through  the 
open  window  a  long  wailing  note  of  a  violin, 
which  was  followed  by  a  rapid  march,  executed 
with  such  fervor  that  Monsieur  Nardi  swallowed 
the  last  drop  of  his  cafe  noir  and  mounted  hurriedly 
to  the  room  above,  where  he  could  command  a 
view  of  the  cottage  yard. 


;i:i:;: 


i'it 


ii!..;. 


.ni>; 


m 


THE   LITTLE   VIOLINISTE. 


APPROACHING  the  window  cautiously,  Mon- 
sieur Nardi  looked  through  the  "  bowed  "  shut- 
ters, a  surprised  and  interested  spectator  of  a  little 
scene  which  made  him  laugh  softly  to  himself. 

Before  one  of  the  low  back  windows  of  the  cot- 
tage, a  small  platform  was  constructed  of  an  old 
door  laid  across  a  couple  of  rough  boxes.  This 
was  decorated  at  eaph  end  with  the  long  swaying 
leaves  of  the  banana,  and  over  it,  against  the 
wall  of  the  house,  were  fastened  several  blossom- 
ing branches  of  oleander  and  crape  myrtle,  the 
pink  and  white  flowers  blending  prettily  and  mak- 
ing quite  a  bowery  effect.  While  he  was  wonder- 
ing at  this  fantastic  arrangement,  the  faded  red 
curtain  at  the  window  was  drawn  aside  by  an  im- 
petuous hand,  and  a  picturesque  little  figure  stepped 
out,  with  a  long  train,  fashioned  from  a  faded 
damask  table-cover,  trailing  behind  her.  This  was 
gathered  in   a  bunch  behind,  and  fastened   under 

i6 


THE  LITTLE  VIOLLXISTE. 


»7 


oiisly,  Mon- 
Dwed  "  shut- 
r  of  a  little 

himself. 

of  the  cot- 
i  of  an  old 
oxes.  This 
)ng  swaying 
against  the 
ral  blossom- 
myrtle,  the 
[y  and  mak- 
was  wonder- 
e  faded  red 
le  by  an  im- 
gure  stepped 
yea.  a  faded 
r.  This  was 
itened   under 


a  sash  of  frayed  blue  silk;  a  wreath  of  crushed 
pink  roses  fell  over  her  long  yellow  hair ;  her  scant 
white  frock  was  decorated  in  front  with  faded 
flowers,  and  her  small  feet  were  covered  with 
soiled  white  shoes  much  too  large  for  them.  In 
one  hand  she  held  a  violin,  which  looked  out  of 
proportion  to  the  slender  little  figure,  and  in  the 
other  the  bow  which  she  waved  gracefully,  bowing 
to  the  right  and  left,  and  smiling  sweetly  to  an 
imaginary  audience. 

Suddenly  there  sounded  a  succession  of  hearty 
claps,  dry  and  rattling,  as  though  two  sticks  were 
struck  together,  and  Monsieur  Nardi's  merry  eyes, 
following  the  direction  of  the  noise,  saw  another 
droll  figure. 

In  the  shadow  of  a  great  oleander  tree,  seated 
in  an  armchair,  was  an  old  white-haired  negro,  ar- 
rayed in  the  remnants  of  a  dress  coat,  a  tattered 
opera  hat  on  his  lap  was  filled  with  flowers, 
which  he  caressed  tenderly  with  the  long  bony 
hands,  that  had  rattled  applause  when  the  little 
violiniste  appeared. 

Slowly  and  graciously,  with  quite  a  professional 
air,  the  child  approached  the  front  of  the  small 
platform,    and    with    another   charming    bow    and 


i8 


SERAPH,    THE  UTTLE    VIOLIN ISTE. 


m 


rif 


smile  raised  the  violin    to  her  shoulder,  and    lean- 
ing   her    soft    pale    cheek    caressingly  against    it, 
seemed  to  whisper  to  it  as  if   it  were    a   human 
being.     Poising  the   bow  in  the  air  for  a  moment, 
and  bringing  it  suddenly  down  on  the  strings,  she 
drew     out     a    few     wild     discordant     notes,    then 
plunged    into   a   rapid   mirthful   fantasie,  so   light 
and  joyous,   so    full   of   soul-stirring  hilarity,  that 
Monsieur  Nardi  fairly  shook  with  laughter.     From 
that  she  floated  off  into  a  dreamy  nocturne  which 
she    played    with    great    expression    and    delicacy, 
the   slender  little   fingers   gliding  caressingly  over 
the    strings    while    she    seemed    to    whisper    and 
smile  into  the   very  heart   of  the  violin.     After  a 
few  last  chords  drawn  out   in   infinite   sadness    to 
silence,  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  around  tri- 
umphantly, her  little   white   face   full   of  passion, 
her  dark  eyes  beaming  with  excitement. 

Then  the  strange  audience  of  one  struck  his 
bony  hands  together  in  rapturous  applause,  after 
which  he  showered  his  posies  upon  the  happy 
little  violiniste,  who  smiled  and  bowed  with  her 
hand  on  her  heart  after  the  manner  of  older 
artists.  When  the  old  hat  was  emptied  of  its 
fragrant  contents,  the  little  girl  gathered  in  her 


*:jr,-^~-.;:W3Kj 


THE   I.ITTI.E   VIOLINISTE. 


19 


and    lean- 
-gainst    it, 
a   human 
I  moment, 
trings,  she 
otes,    then 
3,  so   light 
arity,  that 
ter.     From 
irne  which 
i   delicacy, 
singly  over 
liisper    and 
1.     After  a 
sadness    to 
around  tri- 
o£  passion, 

struck  his 
(lause,  after 
the  happy 
i  with  her 
ir  of  older 
)tied  of  its 
jred  in  her 


arms  as  many  of  the  flowers  as  she  could  carry, 
and  turning  with  a  graceful  sweep  of  her  table- 
cover  train,  she  gravely  raised  the  red  curtain 
and  disappeared  through  the  window. 

When  she  was  gone,  the  old  negro  rose  stiffly 
from  his  chair,  and  taking  off  the  shabby  coat,  he 
shook  it,  and  looking  at  it  critically,  muttered, 
"Anoder  split  down  der  back,  an'  dat  sleebe 
mos'  tored  from  top  ter  bottom.  I  can't  get  inter 
it  many  mo'  times  eben  to  please  dat  chile." 

Then  with  shaking  hands,  he  slowly  and  care- 
fully folded  the  dilapidated  garment,  and  carried 
it  with  the  hat  into  the  small  back  room  that 
served  him  for  a  chamber.  After  that  he  lifted 
the  chair  laboriously,  and  slowly  hobbled  with  it 
toward  the  cottage,  still  muttering  to  himself. 

"Bress  my  soul,  I's  a  gettin'  ole,  too  ole  ter 
play  wid  chil'ren,  an'  my  ole  ban's  is  dat  stiff  an' 
sore  in  der  jints  dat  I  can  hardly  clap  no  mo' 
fer  dat  chile,  an'  Miss  Seraph  'spects  it  jes'  es  if 
it  was  real,  an'  loud,  loud,  jes'  es  if  I  was  a  whole 
aujiance,  an'  it's  mighty  hard  to  tote  dis  yere 
heaby  chair  back  an'  fo'th  jes'  ter  please  her.  As 
if  I  couldn't  set  on  a  ole  bar'el  an'  frow  dem 
flowers    an'    play    I    was    der    aujiance    widout 


II  li 


iihI'' 


m 


11 


5£AV(/'//,    TJ/f.  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

Btrainin'    inter  dat  olo   coat  of  her  pa  h,  an  tircin' 
out   my   old    Loncs  a  settin'    up    straight    in    her 
ma's  bes-  chair.     But  olo   unc'    Romeo   can't    fuse 
dat  chile   nofin.     If  she  wanted  dat   pianner   toted 
out  yere,  I'd   have  ter  try  to  do  it  jes'  ter   please 
her,  an'  it's  a  won'er  she  don't.     I's  'feared  ebery 
time  I  rigs  up  dat  platform,  I  'sF^^  8"^  day  ter 
year,  '  Unc'  Romeo,  we's  got  ter  habe  dat  planner 
out  yere,'    an'   I's  a  studyin'   how's   I   gwine   ter 
'fuse  her.     Now  her  ma's  done  tuk  wid  der  numb 
palsy  in  her  feetses  an'   can't  walk,  an'   her   pas 
dade,  she's  on'y  got  me  ter  wait  on  her  an     muse 
her,    an'    I's    wiUin',  I's    wiUin',  but    Is    gettm 

awful  ole  an'  stiff." 

When  the  old  negro  had  finally  hoisted  the 
heavy  chair  up  the  steps  of  the  little  gallery,  and 
disappeared  within.  Monsieur  Nardi  straightened 
himself,  with  a  long  sigh,  and  turned,  somewhat 
reluctantly,  from  the  window.  He  would  have 
liked  a  sequel  to  the  little  comedy. 

The  scene  that  he  had  witnessed  affected  him 
strangely.  The  beauty  and  remarkable  talent  of 
the  child  and  the  touching  devotion  of  the 
old  servant  impressed  him  as  something  of  more 
than  ordinary  meaning.    Unexpectedly  he  seemed 


iL 


THF.   llTtLK.    VIOUNISTH. 


21 


an  tirein' 
It  in  her 
can't  'fuse 
liner  toted 

ter  please 
ared  ebery 
un  day  ter 
[at  planner 

gwine  ter 
I  der  numb 
i'  her  pa's 
r  an'  'muse 

I's    gettin 


to  have  came  face  to  fiirp  with  his  own  past. 
Th(!  sadness  {irul  pathos  of  the  nocturne  had 
entered  into  ins  soul,  and  the  small  pale  face  of 
the  child  brought  back  scenes  that  his  heart  re- 
ujembered. 

In  the  iialf-hour  that  he  lingered  near  the  win- 
dow, he  seemed  to  have  gone  back  more  than 
foi-ty  years  to  that  time,  those  scenes,  that  still 
haunted  him  with  their  undying  sweetness.  With 
a  sigh  of  tender  regret  for  his  lost  youth,  his 
dead  hopes,  he  closed  the  shutter,  and  descended 
thoughtfully  to  his  shop. 


hoisted  the 
gallery,  and 
straightened 
I,  somewhat 
would    have 


affected  him 
(le  talent  of 
ion  of  the 
ling  of  more 
y  he  seemed 


11  ii 


lir 


ill 


III. 


PETITE   MAMAN. 


WHILE  the  pretty  little  maiden  was  masquer- 
ading in  the  back  yard,  under  the  admir- 
ing eyes  of  Monsieur  Nardi,  her  mother,  Madame 
Blumenthal,  was  sitting  alone  by  the  window  of 
her  dull  little  room,  looking  out  into  the  small 
flower-tangled     garden    and     narrow    dusty    street 

beyond. 

At  the  first  glance  one  would  have  thought  her 
a  child,  so  small  and  frail  did  she  appear,  sunk  in 
a  big  armchair,  with  her  helpless   feet  on  a  stool. 
She  wore  a  white  robe  de  chamhre,  very  plain  but 
clean    and   fresh,  and    over   her   poor  feet,    which 
were  always  cold,  was   spread  a  thick   red    shawl. 
Her  face  was   pretty,  a   faded   delicate   prettiness. 
Soft  curling  blond  hair   lay  in   damp   rings   over 
her  blue-veined   temples,  her  eyes  were  large  and 
light,   with   a  timid,  startled    expression,  and   her 
mouth,  although   drooping    in    curves   of   suffering 
at  the  corners,  was  gentle  and   refined;  her   thin 


22 


PETITE  MAM  AN. 


23 


IS  masquer- 
the  admir- 
jr,  Madame 
window  of 
the  small 
usty    street 

thought  her 
jar,  sunk  in 

on  a  stool. 
•y  plain  but 
feet,    which 

red  shawl. 
3   prettiness. 

rings  over 
B  large  and 
Dn,  and  her 
of  suffering 
d;  her   thin 


little  hands  lay  folded  on  her  lap  with  an  air  of 
extreme  weariness  and  dejection ;  the  tips  of  the 
slender  folded  fingers  looked  like  the  petals  of  a 
flower  dyed  with  rainbow  colors. 

Before  her  stood  a  table  covered  with  scraps  of 
silk  and  muslin  of  every  hue,  together  with 
bunches  of  leaves  of  various  forms  and  colors, 
from  pale  to  dark  green,  bronzed,  flushed  with 
crimson  and  ruddy  brown.  There  were  rose  leaves, 
leaves  for  violets  and  pansies,  slender  lih'  stems 
and  foliage,  mossy  tendrils,  and  graceful  vines, 
mingled  with  bunches  of  wire,  spools  of  silk,  and 
balls  of  thread  of  many  tints  and  sizes.  In  front 
of  her  were  a  number  of  tiny  saucers,  the  bright 
blotches  of  paint  still  fresh  on  them,  and  a  row 
of  little  bottles  of  liquid  color  which  glowed  like 
jewels  when  the  sun  struck  them. 

On  the  same  table  stood  a  basket  filled  with 
exquisite  artificial  roses  clustered  artistically 
among  folds  of  pale  green  tissue  paper.  The 
slender  red-tipped  fingers  of  Madame  Blumenthal 
had  just  put  the  finishing  touches  to  them  and 
packed  them  ready  to  be  sent  to  Madame  Croizet, 
the  modiste,  on  Rue  Royale.  The  basket  of 
flowers  had    an    air   of    completeness    and   dainty 


m 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE  VIOLINLSTE. 


^ 


r 


I 

i 


('4 

11 

•r 

I 
1 


24 

freshness  that  was  not  in  keeping  with  the  littered 
table,  the  somewhat  untidy  room,  and  the  faded, 
weary  look  of  its  silent  occupant. 

Suddenly  the  door  that  led  into  the  rear  of  the 
cottage  was  opened  with  a  rush,  and  the  little 
violiniste  entered,  flushed  and  excited.  She  had 
unfastened  her  table-cover  train,  and  it  was  hang- 
ing to  her  sash  by  one  corner.  She  carried  her 
violin  under  one  arm,  and  with  her  disengaged 
hand  was  hurriedly  removing  the  wreath  from  her 

hair. 

Madame  Blumenthal,  without  turning  her  head, 
closed  her  tired  eyes,  and  pressing  her  stained 
finger-tips  to  her  forehead,  sighed  audibly,  "Gently, 
gently,  Seraph.  I'm  so  tired,  and  my  head  aches 
so.  Oh,  oh,  what  a  sight  you  are!  Put  that 
trash  away  and  come  to  me." 

«  Omi,  petite  maman,  I'm  coming.  Just  let  me 
put  my  violin  away,  and  my  toilette  must  be 
folded  and  laid  in  my  drawer." 

"  Really,  child,  you  are  too  ridiculous  with  those 
rags,"  returned  her  mother  pettishly.  "I  wish 
you  would  spend  the  time  you  give  to  that  non- 
sense at  your  piano." 

«0h,    maman,  chere    petite    maman,   don't    say 


imw  Ml  MHimWHIfiTir  ^ 


the  littered 
the  faded, 

rear  of  the 
i    the    little 
She  had 
t  was  hang- 
carried   her 
disengaged 
,th  from  her 

ig  her  head, 
her  stained 
)ly,  "  Gently, 
jr  head  aches 
j!     Put   that 

Just  let  me 
'Me    must   be 

us  with  those 
r,  "  I  wish 
to  that  non- 

m,  don't    say 


PETITE  MAMAN. 


«5 


that;  please  don't.  You  wouldn't  if  you  had 
heard  how  well  I  played  to-day,"  cried  Seraph 
joyously,  as  she  drew  a  faded  green  cover  over 
the  violin  and  laid  it  carefully  in  its  case. 
"My  mnsicale  was  a  great  success.  The  house 
was  full,  and  didn't  you  hear  the  applause?  and 
there  were  so  many  beautiful  flowers.  It  was 
lovely,  chh-e  maman.  Won't  you  let  Romeo  wheel 
you  out  to  my  next  musieale  ?  Oh,  do ;  I  play  so 
much  better  with  a  train,  with  flowers,  and  all 
that;  it's  true,  chere,  I  feel  the  music  more,  and 
the  violin  feels  it  and  just  talks  to  me.  It's 
lovely,  lovely,  and  I  am  so  happy." 

"  Hush,  child,  hush ;  you  know  how  it  hurts  me 
to    hear    you    talk    so    absurdly.     You     know     I 
detest  that   violin    playing;  I  don't   want  you    to 
play   the   violin ;  I   want    you   to  play  the   piano. 
How  will  you  ever  be  prepared  to  teach  the  piano 
if    you  waste  your   time    playing    on    the    violin? 
Seraph,    my   darling,    don't     worry  me ;    do    as  I 
wish  ;  practise  on   the    piano  and  leave  the  violin. 
It's    not  the   instrument    for    a    girl.     You    can't 
teach   the   violin   when   you   are    grown,  and    you 
must  earn  you  bread  by  teaching.     You  must  give 
up  the  violin  and  devote  yourself  to  the  piano." 


■■  git«iteBaij«'«gjaawt'igj*taittMnBfiw« 


^^■" 


26 


SERAPH,    THE   LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


m  ! 


All  the  light  faded  out  of  the  pale  little  lace  of 
the  child,  as  she  listened  to  her  mother's  soft,  im- 
ploring  voice.      She    did  not  reply,  but   went  on 
busily  folding  the  veil  and  the  soiled  white   frock. 
«Do  you  hear  what  I  am  saying.  Seraph?"  con- 
tinued  Madame    Blumenthal    impatiently.       "You 
have   disobeyed  me  again   to-day.      You   have  not 
practised  your  scales,  as  I  told  you  to  do.     I  shall 
be  obliged  to  take  the  violin  from  you  in  order  to 
make  you  study  your  piano  lesson." 

"  Oh,  petite  maman,  please   don't  do  that,"  cried 
Seraph,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty.     "  I  will  practise  the 
scales ;  yes,  mamma,  I  will,  but  you  must,  you  must, 
let  me  keep  my  violin;  I  love  it.     It  is  like  some- 
thing living,  and  the  piano  is  only  a  square  box  to 
sit  before  and  jangle,  jangle,  up  and  down  the  cold 
hard  keys,  with  fingers  that  feel  like  sticks,  while 
my  violin  is  my  little   friend.      I  can  put  my  face 
down  to  it ;   I  can  touch  it  with  my  cheek ;  I  can 
whisper  to  it,  and  it  whispers  back  to  me.     Oh, 
mamma,  can't  you  understand  how  I  feel  about  it? 
It  was  papa's;  he  laved  it,  he  touched  it,  he  whis- 
pered  to  it,   and   it   is,  next  to  you,  ch^re   petite 
mamm,  the   very  dearest,  the  only  dear  thing,  I 
have." 


WISTE. 

lie  little  lace  of 
jther's  soft,  im- 
^,  but  went  on 
ed  white  frock. 
;,  Seraph?"  con- 
tiently.  "  You 
You  have  not 
1  to  do.  I  shall 
you  in  order  to 

i  do  that,"  cried 
will  practise  the 
I  must,  you  must. 

It  is  like  some- 
\f  a  square  box  to 
id  down  the  cold 
like  sticks,  while 
can  put  ray  face 
my  cheek ;  I  can 
ack  to  me.  Oh, 
\fi  I  feel  about  it  ? 
uched  it,  he  whis- 

you,  chlre   petite 
Illy   dear   thing,  I 


PETITE  MA  MA  AT. 


27 


"  Yes,  yes,  child ;  yes,  Seraph,  I  know.  Oh,  I 
know,  my  poor  little  darling ;  it  is  natural  that  you 
sliould  love  your  father's  violin.  It  was  a  passion 
with  him,  but  I  must  think  of  your  future.  I  must 
do  what  is  best  for  you,  for  your  future.  Cousin 
Franz  says  that  I  must  make  you  practise  the 
piano." 

"Mamma,  cousin  Franz  does  not  know  how  I 
feel.  Cousin  Franz  loves  to  preach  sermons,  you 
love  to  make  flowers,  and  I  love  to  play  the  violin, 
petite  maman.  I  heard  cousin  Franz  tell  you,  one 
day,  when  he  was  talking  about  my  music,  that 
when  Madge  grew  up  she  should  be  a  teacher  of 
German,  because  she  had  a  talent  for  that  lan- 
guage, and  that  one  did  best  what  one  loved  to  do. 
Then  why  doesn't  cousin  Franz  let  me  play  the 
violin,  when  I  can  play  it  better  than  the  piano?" 

"Because,  my  child,  there  are  some  things  we 
love  which  are  harmful  to  us ;  then  we  are  obliged 
to  give  them  up.  You  are  wa.sting  your  time  with 
the  violin.  Cousin  Franz  wishes  you  to  be  a  pro- 
fessor of  the  piano,  so  that  when  you  are  older 
you  can  earn  money  for  yourself  and  your  help- 
less mother." 
"  That  is  just  what  I  intend  to  do,  mamma ;  I  mean 


{\','*S»40i»UitV'- 


28  SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE   VIOLINISTE. 

to  be  a  great  violiniste ;  1  mean  to  play  in  public. 
I'm  practising  for  that  now,  and  everybody  will 
come  to  hear  me,  and  we  shall  have  money,  — yes, 
lots  of  money, -and  you  shall  go  to  that  great 
doctor   in   Paris,  who  will    cure  you  so  that  you 

can  walk  again." 

«0h!   my  poor  little  one,  those  are   dreams,— 
foolish,    useless    dreams,"    said    Madame    Blumen- 
thal  sadly,  as  she  drew  the  child  tenderly  to  her, 
smoothing  her   disordered  hair  and  flushed  cheeks 
with  her  stained  lingers.     "  You  are  tired  and  ex- 
cited now,  so  we  will  say  no  more  about  it.     Calm 
yourself,  and  make  yourself   tidy;  you  must   take 
the  roses  to  Madame  Croizet,  and  tell  her.  Seraph, 
and  speak  politely,  my  dear,  that  these  roses  are 
very  difficult  to   make,  and  that  I   hope  she  wdl 
kindly  pay  me  something  extra  for  them.     And  ask 
her  to  send  me  some  more  yellow  muslin,  another 
bunch  of  stems,  and  leaves   for  the  orange  blos- 
soms.   Do  you  understand,  dear?    Go  quickly,  my 
child,  and  I  will  send  Romeo  to  the  baker's  for  some 
rolls  for  our  supper,  and  afterward  you  will  have 
an  hour  to  practise  your  scales." 

«  Yes,  mamma,"  said  Seraph  resignedly,   as  she 
took  the  basket  of  flowers  and  went  out. 


'ISTE. 


play  in  public. 

everybody  will 
money,  —  yes, 
to   that   great 

,u  so  that  you 

are  dreams,  — 
idame  Blumen- 
enderly  to  her, 
[  flushed  cheeks 
e  tired  and  ex- 
about  it.  Calm 
you  must  take 
tell  her.  Seraph, 

these  roses  are 
I  hope  she  will 
them.     And  ask 

muslin,  another 
the   orange  blos- 

Go  quickly,  my 

baker's  for  some 
rd  you  will  have 

esignedly,   as  she 
ent  out. 


IV. 


A  LITTLE   WHARF   RAT. 


TTTHEN  Monsieur  Nardi  entered  his  shop,  after 
'  '     his   long   absence,   he   was   pleased    to   find 
everything  in  order,  and  as  fresh  and  clean  as  such 
an  old  musty  place  could  possibly  be. 

The  shutters  had  not  been  taken  down  during 
his  holiday,  as  his  business  could  not  well  go  on 
without  him,  his  peculiar  knowledge  being  a  large 
part  of  his  stock  in  trade,  and  only  available  when 
he  himself  was 'present.  Therefore,  for  the  first 
time  in  nearly  a  hundred  years,  the  little  Magasin 
des  livres  had  been  closed.  Cressy  had,  however, 
opened  the  rear  doors  and  windows  and  aired  it 
frequently,  and  had  dusted  and  arranged  the  books 
in  neat  rows,  gathered  up  all  the  pamphlets  and 
loose  leaves,  put  out  of  sight  all  the  familiar  litter 
so  dear  to  the  old  book-lover,  until  the  usually 
crowded,  untidy  little  place  had  that  swept  and 
garnished  appearance  which  gives  us  such  a  feeling 
of  strangeness  and  newness  when  we  first  return 
home  after  a  long  absence. 
/  29 


m 


•m\[  . 


m 


30  SEKAPII,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

He  had  spent  some  time  at  the  window   above, 
watching  the   masquerade   of    the  little   violiniste, 
and  now  it  was  drawing  on  toward  sunset,  and  for 
some  reason  he  had  a  feeling  of  loss  and  loneliness. 
Was  it  possible  that  his  few  months  of  travel  had 
spoiled  him  for  his    peaceful   pursuits,   had    made 
him  discontented  with  his  humble  home  and  occu- 
pation ?  He  could  not  allow  that;  no,  no,  he  must 
pull  himself  together  and  shake  off  the  feeling  of 
dejection   that    had    so   suddenly   taken   possession 

of  him. 

"  Cressy,  ma  home  femmer  he  said  to  his  ser- 
vant, "  I  shan't  take  down  the  shutters  to-night ; 
my  boxes  won't  be  here  before  to-morrow  morning. 
I  am  rather  tired,  so  I  will  take  a  stroll  on  the 
levee  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air  before  bed-time. 
I   shall  retire  early  and  be  up  betimes  to  unpack 

my  boxes." 

Then  he  took  his  hat  and  loitered  across  Jackson 
Square,  where  crowds  of  children  were  playing 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening;  their  merry,  light- 
hearted  laughter  cheered  him,  and  he  went  on 
toward  the  levee  more  hopefully.  It  was  his 
favorite  spot  at  twilight.  Then  the  labor  of  the 
day    was  over,  the    great    sheds  and    warehouses 


WISTE. 

window   above, 
little   violiniste, 
sunset,  and  for 
s  and  loneliness, 
ts  of  travel  had 
uits,   had    made 
home  and  occu- 
no,  no,  he  must 
ff  the  feeling  of 
taken   possession 

said  to  his  ser- 
hutters  to-night; 
morrow  morning. 

a  stroll  on  the 
before  bed-time, 
jtimes  to  unpack 

ed  across  Jackson 
jn  were  playing 
leir  merry,  light- 
md  he  went  on 
ly.  It  was  his 
the  labor  of  the 
and    warehouses 


A  UTTl.t:    WHARF  KAT. 


31 


were  closed,  the  crowds  of  workmen  had  gone  to 
their  homes,  the  ships  lay  dark  and  silent,  their 
spars  and  rigging  outlined  in  the  shimmering  river. 
In  mid-stream  the  huge  steamers  puffed  up  and 
down,  churning  the  water  to  white  foam,  and 
leaving  a  long  trail  of  black  smoke  against  the 
pink  and  saffron  sky. 

Holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  he  walked  thought- 
fully  to  the  very  edge  of  the  wharf  and  stood  there 
for  some  time,  enjoying  the  freshness  and  beauty 
of  the  scene,  while  the  cool  evening  air  fanned  his 
hot  forehead.  It  was  a  spot  where  he  had  stood 
nearly  every  evening  for  more  than  forty  years 
and  gazed  at  the  same  landscape,  the  same  shift- 
ing panorama  of  passing  ships  and  changeful  sun- 
set clouds.  All  were  the  same,  and  yet  he  did  not 
feel  in  harmony  with  his  surroundings.  He  did  not 
like  this  feeling  of  dissatisfaction ;  he  resented  the 
thought  that  the  pleasures  of  travel  had  set  him 
at  variance  with  his  former  life.  Silent,  and  out- 
wardly calm,  his  gentle,  benevolent  face  betrayed 
nothing  of  the  small  struggle  that  was  going  on 
within,  in  his  effort  to  recover  his  mental  equilib- 
rium. 

With  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fading  splendors  of 


i-^S»ii-^!^S9ii^**S*'-'' 


iiilnl 


.lii  !„i 


i* 


illl.ui'l 

m 
I: 


32  SEXAP//,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

the  evening   Hky,  he  stood   softly  fanning   himself 
with  his  hat,  whe.1  suddenly  he  started  and  glanced 
around  uneasily.     He  had  an  impression  that  some 
one    was   looking   at   him,   hut  there   was   no  one 
visible.       Near  him  was  a  great   mound  of  baled 
cotton,    piled    irregularly    and    covered    with    tar- 
paulins  to   protect   it  from   the   weather.      As   he 
looked   closely,  he    saw   under   a   curtain-like    flap 
of   the  canvas   falling   <-er  a   space   between   two 
bales,  a  pair  of  large  dark  eyes  peering  at  him. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  then  walked  nearer, 
and  stooping  looked  into  the  little  space,  and 
there  saw  sitting,  like  a  little  statue  enshrmed  m 
a  niche,  a  thin,  ragged  boy  of  about  twelve  years. 

The  child  looked  up,  smiling  gently  as  he  met 
the  kind  eyas  bent  on  him,  and  said  in  a  pleasant 
voice,  but  with  the  accent  of    the   slums,  "  Good 

evenin',  sir." 

"Good  evening,  my  little  friend,"  returned 
Monsieur  Nardi.  "What  are  you  doing  here  so 
near  dark?    Why  don't  you  go  home?" 

« I  haven't  got  no  home,"  replied  the  boy,  slip- 
ping out  of  his  niche  and  standing  before  Mon- 
sieur Nardi,  his  ragged  hat  held  respectfully  in  his 
hand. 


jioiwmnwiiWitWMg'y''' 


'^ssOXifi 


.tmmmmmtammm^^^^^^^^ 


!«i!»S«I^SW'tt'**''' 


•♦'•4l>' 


'NISTE. 

fanning   himself 
ted  and  glanced 
Bssion  that  some 
jre   was   no  one 
mound  of  baled 
/ered    with    tar- 
reathor.      As   he 
curtain-like    flap 
^e   between   two 
eering  at  him. 
n  walked  nearer, 
little    space,  and 
,tue  enshrined  in 
out  twelve  years, 
gently  as  he  met 
aid  in  a  pleasant 
le   slums,  "Good 

Eriend,"  returned 
)u  doing  here  so 
lome  i 

lied  the  boy,  slip- 
ding  before  Mon- 
respectfully  in  his 


A  UTTLE    WHARF  RAT.  ^ 

"No  home!    I   don't   understand.     Why,  where 
do  you  live  ?  " 

**0h,  anywheres  where  T  happens  to  be;  some- 
times one  place,  sometimes  anuder.  I  most  al'ays 
goes  up  the  river  on  a  lugger  an'  peddles  fruit 
an'  oysters.  Then  I  lives  on  the  lugger  an'  gits 
plenty  feat.  When  I  can't  git  no  chance  to  take 
a  trip,  I  stays  about  the  wharves.  They  call  me 
a  li'l  wharf  rat,  but  the  sailors  an'  rousterbouts  is 
real  good  to  me.  I  runs  errands  fer  the  screw- 
men.  I  does  odd  jobs  fer  the  men,  an'  they  gives 
me  some  o'  their  dinner,  an'  sometimes  they  gives 
me  a  nickel." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Monsieur 
Nardi  incredulously,  "that  you  sleep  here  at 
night." 

"Yes,  sir,  course  I  does.  When  I  ain't  on  a 
lugger,  I  sleeps  here  on  the  cotton;  it's  warm, 
mister.  In  the  winter  T  crawls  in  ermong  the 
bales,  an'  in  the  summer  I  sleeps  on  the  soft  side 
of  a  plank,  an'  when  it  rains,  I  gits  un'er  the  tar- 
poleyuns,  an'  I'm  as  dry  as  a  crust  o*  bread.  But 
I  knows  you,  mister,"  he  continued,  with  a  little 
wink,  and  a  grimace  of  plea.sed  intelligence.  "  I've 
knowed  you  a  long  time;  you're  the  mister  what 


66#SM««*s«!<S**-'-*-:'^ " 


~^-« 


m 


SESAPII,    Tin-    riTTLK    VIOUNISTE. 


C4    I  ..Ilia   Street      I've  been   there 
sells   books  on  bt.   Louis   oircci. 

lots  o'  times." 

.*  Have  you  ?    What  have  you  boon  there  for  . 
asked  Monsieur  Nardi,  greatly  interested 

«0h,  that's  where   I   goes  to  git   my  books   an 
papers  what  I  reads  an'  says  my  lessons  out  of.     1 
you'll  jes'   ploase  to  co.ne   orlong   here,  mister,  I  U 
show  you  where  1  keeps  'em." 


'It    ' 
Ik  I 

,1'  ,. 


1 1 


srs. 

re  been   there 

n  there  for?" 

stod. 

my  books   an' 

Qns  out  of.     If 

sre,  Diister,  I'll 


MARC. 

TT^ITH  a  ft-.^liii^r  of  amused   curiosity  Monsieur 
Nardi    followed     the    little    follow,   as    he 
hopped  before  him,  looking  back  now  and  tlien,  his 
little  grimy  face  bright  with  eager  ox[.ectation'. 

"Yon  see,  mister,  I'm  lame;  I  run  a  nail  in  my 
foa,  an'  that's   why  I'm  hangin'  'bout   here  'stead 
j'  bein'  off  on  a  trip."    Mere's  where   I   keeps   my 
books  an'  things,"  and  he  stooped  before  a  pile  of 
lumber,     and      lifting      up     some     loose     boards, 
dragged    out   an    old    tin    biscuit    box    filled    with 
such  a  collection  of  rubbish  as  boys   like   to   own. 
On  top  of  the  trash  were  several  dilapidated  spell- 
ing-books,  some   pages   and    scraps    of    magazines, 
newspapers,  and    colored    posters,    with    a    broken 
slate  on  which  was  an  attempt  at  writing. 

"  See,  mister,  I  got  all  these  books  an'  papers 
out  o'  the  trash  box  on  your  sidewalk.  I  goes 
there  often  an'  picks  it  over,  but  your  shop's  been 
shut  up  a  good  while.  Your  old  colored  woman 
told  me  you'd  gone  away  to  Paris." 

35 


("l 


36  SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE   nOLINlSTE. 

.  Yes  I've  been  away,"  returned  Monrie.u  Nardi, 
surprised  at  the  little  fellow's  information  concermng 
;?!  movements;  "but,  my  child,  why  do  you 

.ather  up  those  seraps  of  books.    Can  yo";^*^ ; 
'.Yes,  sir;   course    I    can,"  he    rephed    with  a 
pleased  chuckle,     "  Want  to  hear  me  "  and  p.  k- 
L  up  one   of    the   colored   posters,  he    read    the 
headlines  correctly  in  a  clear,  A™  ™«^; 

.Very  good,  very  good,"  sa>d  Monsieur  Nard. 
heartily    "Why,  my  little  fellow,  how  did  you  learn 

'"."M^'patsy,  the  watchman,  told  me  the  letters. 
Mr   Patsy's  been  here  ever  since  I  can  remember, 
r„' he's  awful  good  to  me;  he  gives  me  swe  1  sh.r^ 
L  breeches  sometimes.      He  knows  how   to  ^^ 
6„e  print,  an'  write,  an'  do  sums,  cause  he  checks 
I:  ght  ad  signs  papers.    Me  an'  him  .s  chums 
an'  he's  tea^hin'  me  to  write  an'  do  sums   on  my 
Tate      See  my   writing ?"    and  he  held  up   tl^e 
toln  slat.,  proudly  pointing  out  each  word  w^h 
his  little  dirty  fmger.  ^'That  spells  my  name,  an 

Npw  'leens,  Louisiana.' 
Twhit  L  your  name,  my  child  r-   asked  Mon- 

sieur  Nardi,  his  eyes  on  the  slate,  vainly  trymg  to 
decipher  the  characters. 


NISTE. 


MARC. 


Monsieur  Nardi, 

ation  concerning 

lid,  why  do  you 

m  you  read  ?  " 
replied    with   a 
me?"  and  pick- 

irs,  he    read    the 

1  voice. 
Monsieur  Nardi 

LOW  did  you  learn 

d  me  the  letters. 
I  can  remember, 
es  me  swell  shirts 
ows  how   to  read 
3,  cause  he  checks 
m'  him  is  chums, 
'  do  sums  on  my 
he   held   up   the 
ut  each  word  with 
pells  my  name,  an 

lild?"   asked  Mon- 
tte,  vainly  trying  to 


"Marc,  sir." 

"What  else?" 

"  Nothing  else ;  just  Marc." 

*Ah,"  murmured  Monsieur  Nardi,  "one  of  God's 
children;"  then  aloud,  "And  your  parents,  are 
they  dead?" 

"  I  guess  so ;  I  don't  know.   I've  been  here  ever 
since  I  can  remember,  an'  I  never  had  any  mammy 
or  daddy.     Mr.  Patsy,  he  said  I  was  a  little  kid 
runnin'  'round  here  when  he  got  the  job,  an'  he  don't 
know  who  I  b'long  to.     He's  tried  to  find  out,  but 
he  can't.     I  don't  need  any  daddy  an'  mammy.     I 
git  plenty  feat,  an'  1  can   read,  an'  I  sleep  warm 
o'  nights;   only  sometimes  —  sometimes   when   Mr. 
Patsy^s  off  makin'  his  roun's,  I  gits  awful  lunsum, 
an'   I'm   'fraid  o'  them   water  gobble-uns   when   I 
hears   'em    splashin'    un'er    the  wharf.    A   Swede 
sailorman  tol'  me  sometimes  them  gobble-uns  come 
an'  drags  boys  down  in  the  river  an'  drowns  'em. 
Now  does  they,  mister?" 

"  No,  no,  my  child,"  said  Monsieur  Nardi,  look- 
ing at  the  boy  reflectively.  Something  in  the  wist- 
ful, appealing  glance  that  accompanied  the  question 
went  straight  to  the  old  man's  heart.  The  child 
was  dirty  and  unkempt,  but  he  was  not  ugly.     His 


'f 


38  SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE   VIOLINISTE. 

Slim  figure  was  straight  and  well  formed   his  feat- 
ures  were    regular,   and  his   eyes   were    beautiful, 
large,  trustful  brown  eyes,  like   the   honest    eyes 
of  a  dog.     And  his  intelligence,  uncommon  in  one 
of  his  class,  his  pitiful  efforts  at  learning  his  care- 
fully hoarded  scraps  of  books,  and  his  pathetic  little 
history,  touched  the  tender  spot,  unusually    tender 
to-night,  in  Monsieur  Nardi's  kind  heart. 

He    remembered    his    own    unhappy,    neglected 
childhood,  his  own    struggle   for    knowledge,  and 
he  felt  like  taking  the  child  to  the  same  fountain 
where    he    had    quaffed    such    delicious    draughts 
Instantly  his  decision  was   made,  and  he   resolved 
to   give  the   little  waif   a   chance.    "And  so  you 
get  lonesome    sometimes,"    he    said.    "Now,  how 
would  you  like  to  come  and  live  with  mc  . 

The  boy's  eyes  grew  large  with  surprise.  Live 
with  you?  Course,  mister,  I'd  like  it,  but  I  guess 
you  ain't  in  earnest." 

"Certainly  I  am,  man  enfant;  I  am  lookmg  for 
a  boy  to  bring  up  in  my  shop,  to  teach  him  the 
business.  I  prefer  an  orphan.  Evidently  you  are 
one.  You  like  books;  and  if  you  are  a  good,  honest 
boy,  you'll  suit  me  perfectly." 

"Ask  Mr.  Patsy  if  I'm  a  good  boy,  hell  tell 


STE. 


MAKC. 


39 


rmed,  his  feat- 
/^ere    beautiful, 
B  honest    eyes 
lomnion  in  one 
rning,  his  care- 
s  pathetic  little 
lusually    tender 
tieart. 

ippy,    neglected 
knowledge,  and 
!  same  fountain 
cious    draughts, 
md  he   resolved 
"And  so  you 
d.    "Now,  how 
ivith  me?" 
surprise.     "  Live 
J  it,  but  I  guess 

[  am  looking  for 
3  teach  him  the 
Ividently  you  are 
are  a  good,  honest 

3d  boy;  he'll  tell 


you  I  don't  lie  an'  steal.  He  knows  I'm  willin'  to 
work  when  I  ain't  got  a  sore  foot.  Do  you  mean, 
mister,  that  I  can  go  in  your  shop  with  all  them 
books  ?  " 

"It  will  be  part  of  your  work  to  help  me  to 
take  care  of  them." 

"An    I  can  look  in  'em  an'  read  'em?" 
"As  much  as  you  like." 

"Oh,  jimminy  crickets!  That's  a  snap  for  a 
kid  like  me,"  he  cried,  throwing  up  his  ragged 
cap  joyfully. 

"If  you're  as  nice  a  boy  as  I  think  you  are, 
you  shall  be  well  cared  for,"  continued  Monsieur 
Nardi  cheerily.  "You  shall  have  a  comfortable 
little  room  back  of  my  shop,  good  food,  and  clean 
clothes;  but  you  must  be  quiet  and  studious,  and 
you  must  give  up  your  wild  life  on  the  levee.  Do 
you  *hink  you  can  do  that,  mon  enfant?" 

"You  bet  I  can,  mister;  jes'  try  me  an'  see.  I 
know  that  place;  I've  been  there  lots  o'  times  an' 
looked  in  the  shop  when  you  didn't  see  me.  But 
Mr.  Patsy,  he's  my  chum."  Here  his  face  fell  and 
he  looked  worried  and  perplexed.  "He'll  think 
I've  give  him  the  shake.  You'll  let  me  come 
sometimes  an'  see  him,  won't  you?" 


se'aii-SESBS' 


40 


SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE  VIOLINISTE. 


"  Why,  yes ;  every  day  if  you  like,  and  lie  can 
come  and  see  you.  I  know  Pat.y;  he  is  a  very 
worthy  man.  You  can  keep  your  friend,  my  child. 
I  don't  want  you  to  be  ungrateful;  but  I  am  think- 
ing how  strange  it  is  that  I  never  before  saw  you 

here." 

"I've  seen  you  plenty  o'  times  standin'  jes' 
there  on  the  edge  o'  the  wharf,  holdin'  your  hat 
an'  wipin'  your  face  when  it  was  warm.  I  looked 
at  you  good  'cause  I  knowed  you,  but  you  didn't 
happen  to  see  me." 

«Yes,  that    was  it,"   returned  Monsieur  Nardi, 
smiling.     "I   didn't  happen  to  see  you   until  this 
evening."      Then  he   thought,  "I  have  felt  heart- 
sick ever  since  I  heard  that  child  play  the  violin. 
If  there's  a  wound  in  the  heart,  the  mjisic  of  a  violin 
makes  it  bleed.      I  am  a  lonely,  disappointed  old 
man;  I  need  something  human  to  love.     I  never 
before  felt  so  strongly  the  need  of  a  child  to  care 
for.     It  may  be  that  le  hon  Dieu  has  sent  me  this 
one.     We  will  see,  we  will  see."      Then  he  said 
aloud,  "  Well,  my  child,  will  you  go  with  me  now  ? 
Yes,  you  had  better.     Come  then ;  let  us  go  home." 
"Can  I  take  my  box,  and  things?"  he  asked. 
Monsieur  Nardi    said,  "Yes,"   and   Marc   rooted 


;liii:iii::^ 


!i 


m 


g^jsgtew 


ISTE. 

ce,  and  he  can 
;  he  is  a  very 
•lend,  my  child, 
out  I  am  think- 
before  saw  you 

8  standin'  jes' 
)ldin'  your  hat 
■arm.  I  looked 
but  you   didn't 

tlonsieur  Nardi, 
you   until  this 
have  felt  heart- 
play  the  violin, 
mjisic  of  a  violin 
iisappointed  old 
\  love.     I  never 
a  child  to  care 
las  sent  me  this 
Then  he  said 
3  with  me  now? 
let  us  go  home." 
3?"  he  asked. 
,nd   Marc   rooted 


MARC.  .. 

among  the  boards   and   drew   out   a    few    shabby 
toys,  which  he  stuffed  in  his  ragged  pockets,  and 
tuckmg  the  tin  box  under  liis  arm,  he  started  off  , 
with  a  beaming  face. 

"  Cressy,  ma  bonne  femme;'  said  the  old  bookseller, 
going  into  his  neat  kitchen,  where  the  old  woman 
sat   darning  linen,  "I've   got  a   surprise   for  you. 
Smce  I've  been  out  I  have  found  the  boy  I  have 
always  been  looking  for, -that  friendless  orphan. 
He    is    dirty   and    hungry.      Feed    him,    and    see 
that  he  has  a  bath  and  a  comfortable  bed,  and  in 
the   morning,   on   your  way   to    market,   buy  him 
some  clothes;  burn  those  he  has  on.     And,  Cressy, 
he  has  injured   his  foot;  put  arnica  and   a  clean 
bandage  on  it.     Do  all  you  can  for  him  and  think 
that  you  are  doing  it  for  one  of  His  little  ones,  and 
me  as  well.  — Come  in,  mon  enfant.     Here   he   is; 
his  name  is  Marc.     By  and  by  we  will  find  him' 
another,  and -and    we   will  teach    him   to  wear 
shoes  and  stockings   when  his  foot  is  well;  n'est 
ce  pas,  ma  bonne  ?  " 


'MM^ia 


VI. 

BON-BONS   FROM    PARIS. 

rrHE    next    morning    Monsieur    Nardi    awoke 
J-  *witli  the  feeling  o£  a  new  responsibility  rest- 
ing   upon    him.     He    was    very    tired    after    his 
journey  and  the  important  transaction  of  the  even- 
L,  and  when  he  had  taken  his  eoffee  he  turned 
over  for  another  nap;  therefore  it  was  later  than 
his  usual  hour,  and  the  bright  October  sun  was 
looking  into  his  window  when  he  threw  open  the 
shutters.    While  he  was  shaving  he  was  wondenng 
what  had  become  of  his  little  proti'J"'  »»«  «  ';'^;' 
Cressy  had  carried  out  his  instructions  to  make  the 
boy  presentable. 

Presently  he  heard  from  below  a  merry  sweet 
laugh,  and  looking  into  his  garden  he  saw  Marc, 
but  so  transformed  that  it  was  difficult  to  recog- 
nize in  him  the  little  gamm  of  the  previous  even- 
ing He  was  perched  on  a  bench  under  the  arbor 
of  multiflora  rose,  with  Toto  on  his  shoulder,  and 
the  terrier  jumping  over  him  as  if  they  were  old 
friends.    He  looked  several  shades  whiter  now  that 

4* 


BOAr-BONS  FROM  PARIS. 


43 


Nardi  awoke 
ponsibility  rest- 
tired  after  his 
on  of  the  even- 
ioffee  he  turned 

was  later  than 
ictober  sun  was 
threw  open  the 
e  was  wondering 
ej/e,  and  whether 
ions  to  make  the 

^   a  merry  sweet 
en  he  saw  Mare, 
difficult  to  recog- 
he  previous  even- 
1  under  the  arbor 
his  shoulder,  and 
if  they  were  old 
>s  whiter  now  that 


his  face  was  thoroughly  bathed,  and  Cressy  had 
sent  him  to  the  barber  around  the  corner  to  have 
his  hair  washed  and  trimmed,  and  the  result 
was  that  his  matted,  straggling  locks  were  now 
soft  and  waving,  and  of  a  pretty  chestnut  brown. 
He  was  clad  in  a  neat  dark  suit,  and  his  lame  foot 
was  bound  with  a  clean  bandage.  Altogether  he 
looked  like  a  nice  boy,  neat  and  comfortable,  and 
so  happy.  Monsieur  Nardi  thought  the  child  had 
the  most  musical  laugh  that  he  had  ever  heard. 

When  the  old  gentleman  descended  to  his  little 
sitting-room,  behind  his  shop,  where  his  breakfast 
was  served,  he  told  Cres.sy  to  send  the  boy  to 
him,  and  Marc  entered  briskly,  his  bright  face 
full  of  expectation,  just  touched  with  anxiety. 

"  Bon  jour,  mon  enfant,"  said  Monsieur  Nardi 
pleasantly;  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well. 
How  did  you  sleep  in  your  new  home?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  couldn't  sleep  in  the  bed.  It  was 
too  soft  and  warm.  I  never  slep'  in  a  first-class 
bed  like  that,  but  I'll  git  used  to  it,  an'  then  I'll 
like  it,  I  guess." 

"  And  your  clothes,  are  they  comfortable  ?  Do 
you  like  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  eyeing  them  a   little  doubt- 


SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

fully.  "  They're  tumible  swell.  I  ain't  used  to  such 
clean  togs  ;  but  your  colored  woman  says  I'll  git  use 
to  them  too.  She  says  I'll  be  a  boss  dude  in  six 
months;  but  I  won't,  'cause  I  hates  a  dude,  an'  I 
don't  want  the  kids  a  laughin'  an'  pokin"  fun  at  me." 

Monsieur  Nardi  smiled.  "You  shall  not 
dress  above  your  position,  my  child,  I  promise 
you  that;  but  you  must  be  neat  and  properly 
clothed  to  work  in  my  shop,  and  I  want  you  to 
speak  French  as  well  as  you  can.  I  like  it  better 
than  your  English.  Try  to  forget  the  argot  of 
the  levee,  iox  you  must  learn  to  speak  properly, 
in  order  to  serve  my  customers." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  knows  that,  and  I  means  to 
try  hard  to  please  you;  an'  I  wants  to  work. 
Please    give    me    somethin'   to    do,  an'  you'll    see 

how  I  can   work." 

"  Very  well,  my  boy,  you  shall  have*  something 
to  do  in  the  shop.  Ask  Cressy,  and  she  will  show 
you  what  books  need  dusting  and  arranging. 
When  I  finish  m.y  breakfast,  you  shall  help  me  to 
open  my  boxes." 

Monsieur  Nardi  had  no  idea  that  he  had  made 
such  extensive  purchases  in  Paris  until  he  saw 
the    packages   piled    up    in    his    little   shop.     He 


fSTE. 

I't  used  to  such 
^ays  I'll  git  use 
)ss  dude  in  six 

a  dude,  an'  I 
:in'  fun  at  me." 
»u  shall  not 
ild,  I    promise 

and  properly 
I  want  you  to 
I  like  it  better 
it  the  argot  of 
speak  properly, 

1    I    means     to 

ants     to    work. 

an'  you'll    see 

have*  something 
id  she  will  show 
and  arranging, 
ihall  help  me  to 

,t  he  had  made 
s  until  he  saw 
little   shop.     He 


BON-BONS  FROM  PARIS,  ^ 

eyed  them   doubtfully,  scarcely  knowing  where    he 
could   put    so    many    additional    volumes     on    his 
already  overcrowded  shelves ;  but  he  went  to  work 
with   a    will,  assisted   by  Marc,  who    had   the  de- 
lightful faculty  of  doing  exactly  as   he    was   told. 
On  consulting  his   note-book,  the  old  gentleman 
found  that  box  four  contained  toys,  knick-knacks, 
and  little   odd   things   that   he   had   picked   up   in 
the   Palais   Royal   and   Bon   March<?,  for  his  small 
friends.     These    he   hastened    to   unpack,   and   he 
was  surprised  to  find  that  his   little   assistant  was 
uncommonly    helpful,    and     practical    beyond    his 
years.     Although   at    times    Marc   was    sadly  dis- 
tracted by  the   beauty  and   variety  of  the  articles 
he    was   handling,  he    Worked    seriously,  and  with 
the  closest  attention  to  Monsieur  Nardi's  directions, 
trotting   back    and   forth   from   the   boxes    to  the' 
tables  and  shelves,  placing  each   thing  just  where 
it    belonged,  with   such    good    taste    and    aptitude 
that    the   old    bookseller   was   charmed    with    the 
boy's  intelligence  and  docility. 

Before  Monsieur  Nardi  was  aware  of  it,  so  busy 
had  he  been,  it  was  long  after  midday,  and  his 
little  friends,  released  from  the  neighboring  school, 
began  to  gather  about  him,  eagerly  expectant. 


i  I 


SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE   VIOLIN  I  ST  E. 

« Ah !     Here    you    are,   7Hes    en/ants;'    he    said 
cheerfully,  wiping   the^  dust   from   his   hands    and 
straightening  his  bent  back.     -  t^h  Men,  I  tried  to 
remember  you  all.     Now,  my  little  girls  first ;  girls 
must  always  have  the  first  place."     He  was  very  sys- 
tematic, and  on  each  little  gift  he  had  written  a  name. 
"Lucie,  ma  iris   hien  aimee,  here  is  a  doll  for 
you     Look,   ma  cMre,  you   can    touch    this    tiny 
spring,  and   she  will  walk  and    hold  her    parasol 
over  her  head  like  a  real  little  lady.    Elle  est  chic, 

nest-ce  pas  f  "  . 

"  Merci,  merci  Uen,  Oncle  'Nidasr  and  little  Lucie 
grasped  the  lovely  toy  rapturously  ;  "0/i,oA,  she  is 

so  pretty!"  . 

« And  Fifine,  ma  honne  petite  Fifine,   this  is  a 
Cupidon  for  you,  a  love  of  a  Cupidon  ;  and,  Marie, 
for  you,  a  trifle^  but  it  is  not  so  bad.     Eh  hien, 
Celeste,  for    you    a  useful  present,   a  neat   little 
writing-case  for  my  best  scholar,  -  pens,  paper,  and 
all.     Bien,  hien,  trh  &im."      And  Monsieur  Nardi 
pushed  them  ofE  with  both  hands :  their  clamor  of 
thanks  and  lively  demonstrations  of  gratitude  were 
too  much  for  him.     "  Be  quiet,  allons,  allons.    Here, 
Henri,  this  is  for  you.     And,  Pierre,  you  see  I  have 
not  forgotten  you.     Voila,  Jacques,  my  poor  little 


STE. 

nts,''    he    said 
is   hands    and 
im,  I  tried  to 
ills  first ;  girls 
e  was  very  sys- 
ivritten  a  name, 
is  a   doll  for 
uch    this    tiny 
Id  her    parasol 
.    Elle  est  chic, 

and  little  Lucie 
''Oh,  oh,  she  is 

ifine,   this  is  a 
on  ;  and,  Marie, 
bad.     Eh  hien, 
-,,   a   neat   little 
pens,  paper,  and 
Monsieur  Nardi 
their  clamor  of 
f  gratitude  were 
%s,  allons.    Here, 
e,  you  see  I  have 
3,  my  poor  little 


BON-BOATS  FROM  PARIS. 


m 


Jacques,  in  this  box  is  a  strap  for  your  lame 
hip.  You  must  wear  it  all  the  time,  and  it  will 
cure  you,  and  under  the  strap -well,  take  it  home 
and  look,  and  you  will  see,  my  little  man,  you  will 
see.  Ah,  ijros  Jean,  you  are  getting  too  large 
ioxjoujous.  Take  this_p«,  heaucoup,  but  it  shows 
that  ]  remembered  you.  Now  you  all  have  some- 
thmg,  nest-cepasf" 

''Oh  Old,  Old,  hen  Oncle  ^Nidas;  merci,  mercif- 
and    there    was    another    onslaught,    from    which 
laughing  and   struggling,   he  defended   himself   as 
well  as  he  was  able. 

During  all  this  animated  little  scene,  Marc  had 
stood  with  clasped  hands  and  eager,  dancing  eyes, 
a  delighted  spectator  of  the  happiness  of  others. 

"  He  has  a  good,  generous  heart,"  thought  Mon- 
sieur Nardi ;  «  he  has  not  shown  the  least  jealousy 
or  disappointment  because  I  have  nothing  for  him 
Come  here,  man  enfant,"  he  said  kindly,  "and  let 
these  httle  people  see  you.  Children,  your  Uncle 
Nidas  has  a  new  nephew ;  his  name  is  Marc,  and 
he  has  come  to  live  here.  I  hope  you  will  all  be 
very  friendly  to  him." 

"  We  will,  Uncle  'Nidas,  we  will,"  they  all  cried 
heartily,  and  with  one  voice. 


SERAPf/,   IWi  LITTLE    yiOLlNlSTE. 

Then  little  Fitinc  drew  near  and  whispered. 
«  Listen,  mon  onclc ;  did  yon  bring  him  from  Paris 
in  one  of  those  big  boxes  ? " 

"  No,  naughty  little  one  ;  no,  no,"  replied  Mon- 
sieur Nardi,  laughing  and  patting  the  rosy  cheek ; 
«  no,  I  did  no«  bring  him  from  Paris,  I  found  him 
here.     Ah,  ah,  what  do  I  see  ?  another  cher  petit 

ange'' 

For  just  at  that  moment  Monsieur  Nardi  noticed 
a  little  figure  standing  without,  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  sidewalk,  looking  sadly  at  the  happy 
group  within  the  shop.  There  was  a  wistful  ex- 
pression in  the  brown  eyes  that  went  straight  to 
the  heart  of  the  good  old  man,  a  sort  of  lonely 
aloofness  from  the  happiness  of  the  other  chil- 
dren, which  appealed  strongly  to  him.  Stepping 
to  the  door,  he  said  kindly,  '*  Won't  you  come  in 
and  look  at  the  pretty  things?  You  see  I  know 
you;  you  are  my  little  neighbor."  Then  to  him- 
self, "Dear  me,  dear   me,  and  I  have  nothing  for 

her." 

Glancing  around,  his  eyes  fell  on  a  box  of  bon- 
bons, an  exquisite  thing  of.  pale  mauve  satin, 
ornamented  with  a  bunch  of  violets  and  a  rich 
ribbon.    He  had  bought  it  for  an  older  child ;   in 


mmi. 


IN!STE. 


and    whispered, 
him  from  Paris 


10,"  replied   Mon- 

the  rosy  cheek ; 

aris,  I  found  him 

motlier  cher  petit 

leur  Nardi  noticed 
on  tlie    extreme 
[lly  at  the  happy 
vas  a  wistful   ex- 
went  straight  to 
,  a  sort  of  lonely 
E    the  other    chil- 
bo  him.     Stepping 
''on't  you  come  in 
You   see  I  know 
r."     Then  to  him- 
;  have  nothing  for 

on  a  box  of  bon- 
pale  mauve  satin, 
triolets  and  a  rich 
m  older   child;   in 


I 


i 


,vo\'r  YOU  i:oME  n  ano  look  a'  the  pretiy  things?' 


fill 


BON-BONS  FROM  PARIS. 


49 


fact,  he  intended  it  for  his  friend  and  customer, 
Madame  St.  Maxent.  But  he  did  not  hesitate,  he 
could  not  be  indifferent  to  a  sad-eyed  child;  so 
he  wrote  on  a  card,  "For  the  charming  little 
mohmsur  and  fastening  it  to  the  ribbon,  he 
handed  it  to  Seraph,  saying,  "For  you,  my  child; 
please  accept  it;  it  is  only  a  little  box  of  bon- 
bons from  Paris." 


i'l'Miiiii'wfriilif 


VII. 


THEIR  LITTLE   HISTORY. 

CiERAPH  was  not  fond  of  Cousin  Franz  Amet, 
b  although  he  was  almost  the  only  friend  she 
and  her  mother  had.  He  was  a  cousin  of  Carl 
Blumenthal,  the  violinist,  and  when  they  were 
boys  in  far-away  Germany,  they  were  mtimate 
friends  and  close  companions.  Carl's  father  was 
a  musical  director  in  Berlin,  and  the  father  of 
Franz  was  a  poor  Lutheran  minister. 

Cari  followed  the  profession  of  his  father.     He, 
Carl,  was  a  musical  enthusiast,  with   more    than 
ordinary  talent ;  but  lacking  that  spark  of  gemus, 
that  immortal  touch,  which  the  human  soul  recog- 
nizes   and    adores.      He    was    a    fair-haixed    light 
hearted  boy  of    twenty  when  he  left  the  father- 
laud   to    seek   his    fortune    in    the    New    Wor  d. 
Hearing    that   New   Orleans  was   a  musical    city, 
he    drifted    South,    and    very    soon    got    a    good 
engagement  as  second  violm. 

For  several  years  he  led   a  careless,  happy  Me, 
with   very    little    ambition  beyond  filling  his  en- 

50 


Franz  Amet, 
ily  friend  she 
jousin  of  Carl 
en  they  were 
were  mtimate 
■I's   father  was 

the   father   of 

er. 

lis  father.     He, 
ith   more    than 
ipark  of  genius, 
man  soul  recog- 
air-haired,  light 
left  the   father- 
e    New    "World, 
a  musical    city, 
an    got    a    good 

eless,  happy  life, 
d  filling  his  en- 


THEIR  LITTLE  HISTORY.  -t 

gagement  during  the  season,  and  at  other  times 
ekmg  out  his  scanty  income  by  teaching  and 
playing. 

One  winter  it  was  whispered  that  there  was 
to  be  a  d&ndante  in  the  musical  world,  a  young 
girl  of  rare  loveliness,  who  had  never  appeared 
before  the  public,  and  who  had  been  taught  en- 
tirely by  her  mother,  Madame  Paulette,  a  former 
first  soprano,  who  in  her  youth  had  been  much 
admired  for  her  beauty,  as  well  as  for  her  noble 
upright  character.  ' 

Madame    Paulette    had    retired   early  from   her 
profession    to    devote    hersel.    to   an    invalid    hus- 
band   and    one   idolized    child.      Before   her   little 
Louise   had   completed    her  sixth   year,  she   began 
to  show  her  inherited  talent,- she  could  sing  like 
a  tmy  bird,  — but  her  mother,  knowing  from  her 
own  experience,  how  severe  the  training  must  be 
and  how  great  were  the  trials  and  temptations  of 
a  public   singer,  tried   in  every  way  to  discourage 
her  httle   daughter  from  following   the   profession 
which  she  had  found  most  unsatisfactory. 

The  child  had  a  thoroughly  artistic  tempera- 
ment ;  she  was  light  and  graceful  to  her  dainty 
^-'iger   Ixps.      She   loved  flowers  passionately,  and 


i 


111 

I 

,5!l 


a 


5,  SeHAPK   THE  UTTLE   VIOLimSTE. 

showed  such  remarkable  taste  in  tohioning  them 
that  her   mother    apprenticed   her  to  an  art.fica 
flower-maker.    But,  poor  child,  she  could  not  s.t 
still   and  patiently  follow  the  dull  routme  of  her 
trade.     She  grew  tired  of  cutting  leaves  and  wrad- 
ing  stems;  her  little  restless  spirit  sang  to  melo- 
dies  unheard  by   all   save  herself.      She   was  hke 
an    imprisoned    bird    or    butterfly,    her    l.fe    was 
rhythm  and  melody,  and    she  was  dymg  am.dst 
discords,  dulness,   and    inaction.      She    grew    pale 
and  listless;  she   was  fading  like  a  flower  m  an 
unnatural    atmosphere.      At  last   she    declared   to 
her  mother,  with   a  passionate  outburst  of   tears, 
that  she  could  not  live,  that  she  must  sing  or  d.e. 
Poor  Madame  Paulette  saw  that  it  was  useless 
to  struggle  against  a  law  stronger  than  maternal 
desires.     So   she    removed   Louise  from    the    shop 
o£  the  flower-maker,  and  began  systematically  to 
train  her  voice.    If  she  was  to  be  a  singer    she 
should  be  no  ordinary  singer.     She  should  be  a 
prmt^e  or  nothing.    Therefore  the  delicate,  sweet 
little  voice  was  subjected  to  the  severest  trammg. 
There  must   be  no  note  too  difficult    for  her  to 
aocomplish.    Ah,  what  an  undertaking  for  a  fra. 
little  giri  of  twelve  years!    What  courage,  what 


ISTE. 

shioning  them 
o   an   artificial 
could   not  sit 
routine  of  her 
aves  and  wind- 
aang  to  melo- 
She   was  like 
her    life    was 
8   dying  amidst 
She    grew    pale 
a  flower  in  an 
3he    declared   to 
itburst  of   tears, 
nust  sing  or  die. 
,t  it  was  useless 
r  than  maternal 
from   the    shop 
systematically  to 
be  a  singer,  she 
She   should  be  a 
tie  delicate,  sweet 
severest  training, 
ficult    for  her   to 
making  for  a  frail 
lat  courage,  what 


T//E/N  LITTLE  HISTORY. 


53 


patience,  what  endurance  were  necessary  before  she 
could  hope  for  success  ;  but  at  last,  when  she  was 
scarcely  seventeen,  one  never  to  be  forgotten 
night,  slender  girlish  Louise  appeared  before  her 
first  audience.  The  first  soprano  had  been  taken 
suddenly  ill,  and  Louise  Paulette  was  selected  to 
fill  the  diflicult  role. 

Carl  Bluinenthal,  below  in  the  orchestra,  almost 
forgot   his  notes,  so   enraptured   was   he  with    the 
lovely  creature.     Her  voice  was  so  pure  and  fresh 
and  she  was  so  modest,  and  so  gentle  in  her  nmm 
and  childlike   efforts   to  please,  that  her   audience 
was  enchanted  with  her,  and  after  the   first  note 
her  success   was  assured.     But,  alas,  her   triumph 
was  short-lived ;  before  the  season  was  over,  a  sud- 
den cold  during  too  severe  practice  over  a  difficult 
part  brought  on  inflammation  of  the  vocal  organs, 
and  her  singing  days  were  over.     The  doctor  who' 
attended  her  gave  her  little  hope   from   the   first. 
The  delicate  organization  had  been  overtasked,  and 
Nature  had  revenged  herself. 

It  was  very  pathetic,  the  sudden  ending  of  such 
a  brilliant  career,  and  poor  Louise  almost  sank 
beneath  the  blow.  Among  the  first  to  offer  his 
devotion    to    the    stricken    little   singer   was   Carl 


m 


II 


5^  SEKAIW.   THE  UTTW.    V.OUmSTE. 

Blumenthal.  From  the  fi.t  mu.nent  of  W  affli^ 
tion  he  cheered  her  «ith  h«  xunny.  hopetul  natme 
Id  Gained  her  hy  hU  loyalty  and  .ncere  affee- 

"°Madame  Paulette  never  recovered  tro.n  the  shock; 
•    1    !  tl.  a  year  after  her  daxghters  >n.sfortu„e 
1" laid  fro.  the  anxieties  and  d^app^n. 
Zl  of  awearUome  life.    Then  the  noble  natme 
rcarl  Blumenthal,  his  love  and  devofon  for    he 
•  ,       „,t«,1  itself     He  married  her  and 
unhappy  g-n,  ---""^    ^,„„„    „e   f„,ni,hed 
took  her   to  a  neat  cottage,   wiuci 
Td     ecorated  from  his  .nail  savings,  ma  mg 
as  dainty  and  pretty  as  he  poss.bly  could  tor  h« 
Telicate  little  >vife,  and  they  were  very  happy  m 
♦hpir  modest  home. 

The  old  negro,  Romeo,  who  had  been  for  years  a 
hanger-on,  h^,  without  any   particular  desire  on 
le  It  of  Carl  Blumenthal,  attached  hnnself  to 
h    y^ung  violinist  with  one  of  those  unselBsh  and 
to  re  affections  which  of..n  e.ist    between 
colored  servant  and   the  white  master.    So  when 
I^e    young    couple    set    up    their    home,  the   old 
Ley  became  a  very  useful  ..ember  of  the  small 
^„1   quitting  his  favorite  and  life-long  haunts, 
m«nagc,  quuui  s  uiaster. 

for  the  kitchen  and  garden  ot  his  auoie 


■ISTli. 

X  of  her  afflic- 
Uopeful  nature, 
d  sincere  affec- 

froin  the  shock ; 
ter's  misfortune 
and  disappoint- 
,he  noble  nature 
devotion  for  the 
married  her  and 
!h    he    furnished 
wrings,  making  it 
)ly  could  for  his 
e  very  happy  in 

been  for  years  a 
•ticular  desire  on 
tached  himself  to 
tiose  unselfish  and 
xist    between   the 
master.     So   when 
ir    home,  the    old 
iHiber  of  the  small 
,d  life-long  haunts, 
lis  adored  master. 


TI/E/Ji  LITTLE  HiyrORY. 


55 


Not  long  after  Carl's  marriage  his  family  was 
increased  by  the  arrival,  from  Germany,  of  his 
Cousin  Franz.  His  boyhood's  friend  had  gone  into 
the  church,  and  had  been  ordained,  and  called  to  a 
suiall  Lutheran  congregation  in  New  Orleans,  where 
he  had  arrived  full  of  piety  and  zeal  to  take  charge 
of  his  new  church. 

Then  another  stranger  came,  a  beautiful  dark-eyed, 
golden-haired   little   girl,   so   lovely  and   so   lively,' 
so  full  of  life  and  motion,  such  a  noisy,  irrepressible 
little  mite,  that  the  quiet  cottage  was   filled  with 
sudden  animation.     One  day  when  they  were  search- 
ing  for  a  name  to  bestow  upon  the  turbulent  little 
creature,  her  father  said,  "  Let  us  call  her  Sera- 
phin,"  and  from  that  time  the  name,  shortened  to 
Seraph,  became  a  part  of  her.     And  it  suited  her 
extremely  well;  she  was  so   bright,   so  active,  so 
overflowing  with  sound,  so  much  in  evidence,  as  to 
be  always    the  most    important  personage   in  the 
small  household. 

The  young  mother,  notwithstanding  her  bitter 
disappointment,  could  have  been  happy  and  con- 
tented with  her  lot  had  she  regained  her  health 
after  the  birth  of  her  child ;  but,  alas,  it  very  soon 
became  apparent  that  she   was  to  remain  an  in- 


^ 


Hi 


St 


SF.KAPU,   THE  LITTLE    VWLINISTE. 


valid,  chained  to  her  chair  by  a  partial  paralysis 
of  her  lowtsr  limbs.  This  was  another  terrible 
Wow,  but  Carl  and  Cousin  Franz  were  so  hopeful 
of  her  final  cure,  that  at  last  she  accepted  the 
situation  patiently,  and  with  nnich  courage  endeav- 
ored to  forget  her  affliction  in  her  devotion  to  her 
husband  and  child. 

Before  Seraph  was  out  of  long  frocks,  Cousin 
Franz,  in  his  austere  piety,  thought  that  she  was 
too  much  petted  and  pampered;  that  such  un- 
bounded l(ive  for  an  earthly  object  was  little  short 
of  idolatry,  and  before  she  could  speak  plainly  she 
had  learned  to  feel  the  frown  of  displeasure  with 
which  the  young  minister  regarded  her.  She 
adored  her  father  and  mother;  she  was  all  affec- 
tion, all  expansiveness  to  them,  but  to  cousin 
Franz  she  showed  a  strong  dislike,  a  settled  aver- 
sion which  was  remarkable  in  so  young  a  child. 
From  her  earliest  recollection  he  was  the  bitter 
drop  in  her  cup  —  the  stern  shadow  which  made 
her  feel  that  babyhood  was  not  all  sunshine. 

She  was  seven  years  old  when  her  little  heart 
ached  with  its  first  real  sorrow.  Her  merry,  light- 
hearted  father,  full  of  life  and  love,  left  them  with 
a  smile  on  his  lips,  and  an  hour  after  was  brought 


'!!. 


STE. 

rtial  paralysis 
lother  terrible 
;re  so  hopeful 
accepted  the 
mrage  endeav- 
evotion  to  her 

frocks,  Cousin 
,  that  she  was 
that  such  un- 
vas  little  short 
sak  plainly  she 
ispleasure  with 
led    her.      She 
was  all  affec- 
but    to    cousin 
a  settled  aver- 
young  a  child, 
was  the  bitter 
w  which  made 
sunshine, 
ber  little  heart 
3r  merry,  light- 
,  left  them  with 
er  was  brought 


TJ/EI/t  LITTLE  HISTORY. 


57 


back  white  and  silent.  He  lived  only  a  few  mo- 
inentj,  dumb,  unconscious,  and  was  .spared  ''the 
sadness  of  farewells."  The  bright  life  went  out 
like  u  candle  in  a  sudden  draught. 

Often  poor  little  Louise  Blumenthal  said  to 
Cousin  Franz,  '^  It  seems  as  though  Carl  has  gone 
away  only  for  a  little  while,  and  that  he  must 
come  back  i.gain.  How  can  Seraph  live  all  her 
life  without  liim  ? " 


!lf 


i  1'; 


m 


i 


f" 


VIII. 

COUSIN    FRANZ.  * 

CiOUSlN  FRAN/  was  a  sensible,  practical  man, 
^  with  very  little  romance  or  sentiment  in  his 
composition.  He  was  sincere,  devout,  and  self- 
sacrificing.  One  of  tho.se  orderly,  well-balanced 
souls,  extremely  well  equipped  to  be  a  guide  and 
leader  for  the  timid  and  weak.  Therefore  when 
poor  Louise  Blumenthal  found  herself  .so  suddenly 
deprived  of  all  earthly  aid,  she  naturally  turned  to 
Cousin  Franz  for  advice  and  moral  support. 

At  his  death,  Carl  left  very  little  means  of 
sustenance  for  his  wife  and  child.  He  was  gen- 
erous and  careless  of  money,  and  had  never  re- 
fused his  small  family  any  luxury  that  added  to 
its  comfort  and  happiness ;  therefore  he  had  saved 
but  little,  and  when  he,  the  cheerful,  patient  bread- 
winner, was  gone,  not  sorrow  alone,  but  poverty 
as  well,  stared  Louise  in  the  face.  How  could  she, 
a  frail  cripple,  support  herself  and  child? 

Tn   this  extremity  Cousin    Franz    came   bravely 
forward   and    adjusted    her    temporal    affairs   in  a 

58 


maiiwmnnrii  imimumwn 


COVS/X  INAN/.. 


59 


,  practical  man, 
jentiment  in  his 
ivout,   and    self- 
y,    well-balanced 
be  a  guide  and 
Therefore   when 
self  80  suddenly 
rurally  turned  to 
1  support, 
little    means   of 
1.     He  was   gen- 
1   had   never  re- 
•y  that   added  to 
»re  he  had  saved 
ul,  patient  bread- 
ane,  but   poverty 
How  could  she, 
I  child? 

nz    came  bravely 
oral    affairs   in  a 


•simple,  sonsiblo  way.     H,.  found  for  her  a  smaller 
le.ss    expensive    cottage,  he    hdped    her    dispose  of 
Ii'T    supuiHuous     furniture.        He   wrote    to   Carl's 
lather  a    touching    letter,   to    which    the    nuisical 
director   generously  responded  by  making  his  son's 
widow  a  small  allowance  from  his  own  slcn.jcr  in- 
<'<)iuo.     Then  Cousin  Franz  suggested  that  it  would 
auuise  Louise,  as  well  as  add  to  her  little  revenue, 
to  take   up   the    long-neglected    (lower-making,  for 
which   she    had   .uch   a   dainty    taste,   a..d    it   was 
<'ousm    Fran,    himself   who,   in    his    stiff    clerical 
garb,  with  his  pale,  severe  face,  went  to  the  good- 
natured,  w.rldly  Madame  Croizet  and  asked  her  to 
employ  the  little  widow. 

"  I  never  send  my  work  out,"  said  Madame.  « I 
have  it  done  under  my  own  eye  by  young  girls 
who  are  learning  the  trade,  therefore  I  pay  but 
little;  but  I  remember  la  gentilk  petite  Louise,  and 
what  an  exceptional  taste  she  had.  So  to  oblige 
you,  monsieur,  I  will  give  her  some  of  my  choicest 
work." 

And  Croizet  was  as  good  as  her  word.  She 
gave  Madame  Blumenthal  the  most  difficult  orders 
«he  received,  and  the  most  artistic  creations  that 
went    from    her   establishment   were    the   work   of 


iliiBfMfl1»f'*»iMi'- 


L^- 


SERAPH,  THE  UTTLE   VIOLINISTE. 


i " 


60 

poor  Loui.es  thin  little  fingers.    But  she  was  not 
Td  in  proportion    to    her   labor  or  her    talent 
i  That  she  earned  helped  to  eUe  out  her  small 

income  and  enable  her  to  exist. 

After  Cousin  Fran,  had  so  cleverly  settled  the 

£„^"  „£  the  mother,  he  laid  out  a  plan  for  the 

T\       of  the  child.    Seraph  had  an  uncommon 

^  •^..    unless    she    understood    the 

"'r  '^   :.  C        Thelre    her    hands    had 
ItJaswenr-her  voice  to  become  flexibl. 

and  elily  subservient  to  her  will,  and  her  head 

ted  acted  over  scales,  chords,  and  fugues,  but  the 

resul   was  great  excellence  in  <eoW««e  a  thorough 

knowledge   of  rudiments,  and  a  superior  style  d 

fin  Jig     AH  this.  Cousin  Fran,  deeded,  must  be 

T^  to  Seranh    in  order  that  she  m.ght  be- 
imparted  to  berapn,  m  , 

come  a  tea<=her  of  the  piano  when  she  was 

^TZ  de^  Louise,"  he  said  in  his  serious,  a. 
thorUative  tone, -for  he  always  spoke  a.  though 
te  were  preaching, -"  it  is  ^e   only  tiv^ure    fo 
iraph,-lucrative  and  thoroughly  respectable.    She 


NISTE. 


COUSIN  FRANZ. 


6i 


Jut  she  was  not 

or  her    talent; 

iQ  out  her  small 

yrerly  settled  the 
i  a  plan  for  the 
id  an  uncommon 
jxcellent  pianiste, 
she  was  learning 
i  that  she  could 
!    understood    the 

her  hands  had 
)  become  flexible, 
ill,  and  her  head 
[id  fugues,  but  the 
ihniqae,  a  thorough 

superior  style  of 
iz  decided,  must  be 
hat  she  might  be- 
vhen  she  was  of  a 

in  his  serious,  au- 
ys  spoke  as  though 
ihe  only  future  for 
hly  respectable.     She 


must  practise  at  least  three  hours  a  day  now,  and 
from  four  to  six  when  she  is  older,  and  you  must 
be  very  careful  that  she  does  not  contract  bad 
habits;  she  will  need  no  other  teacher  than  your- 
self until  she  is  twelve  or  thereabouts.  Then  we 
must  find  some  way  to  finish  her.  She  must  be 
launched  by  a  celebrated  professional,  and  the 
success  of  her  future  is  assured." 

Cousin  Franz  had  always  knoWn  that  Seraph 
had  a  turbulent  nature,  that  she  was  impetuous, 
ardent,  and  passionate;  but  he  believed  that 
children,  like  horses,  should  be  broken,  that  they 
could  be  curbed,  check-reined,  trained  to  harness, 
and  even  punished  severely  if  they  were  refrac- 
tory, and  that  by  proper  discipline  the  most  stub- 
born little  soul  could  be  brought  to  a  state  of 
docility  and  submission.  But  he  had  overesti- 
mated the  value  of  his  theory.  Severity  had  no 
effect  upon  Seraph.  Poor  little  Louise!  her  gentle 
heart,  aching  and  trembling,  had  tried  coercion, 
and  even  mild  forms  of  punishment.  More  she 
could  not  do  —  one  might  as  well  expect  a  dove  to 
fret  and  peck  its  young,  as  for  that  frail  and 
tender  little  mother  to  constantly  thwart  and 
restrain  the  child  she  adored. 


.,iSiai**><4ii« 


63 


SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE    VWLLXISTE. 


The   only  law  that   Seraph  recognized   was  the 
law  of  love.     For  love  of  her  mother  she  tried  to 
study   the  piano,   she   tried   heroically  to    practise 
the  allotted  time,  but  very  seldom  did  she  succeed 
in  performing    her    distasteful    duty.       Her  little 
soul  was  in  the  violin,  and  had  she  been  allowed, 
she  would  have  practised   on   that   for  hours,  joy- 
fully and  unweariedly.     Nor  could  she  understand 
why  one  instrument  was  more  desirable  than  an- 
other.     It  was   the    music,   the   melody,   the    har- 
mony, the  uplifting  and  outpouring,  the  impassioned 
utterance,  that  carried  her  out  of  herself,  and  made 
her  long  for  the  intimate  understanding  which  every 
true  artist  must  have  with  his  instrument. 

Although  Seraph  loved  her  mother  dearly,  she 
felt  at  times  that  there  was  some  injustice  and 
not  a  little  cruelty  in  depriving  her  of  an  inno- 
cent pleasure,  as  well  as  preventing  her  from  be- 
coming an  adept  in  a  study  which  she  had  fixed 
upon  in  the  very  depths  of  her  heart  as  her  future 
vocation.  However,  with  uncommon  intelligence, 
she  understood  something  of  the  struggle  her 
mother  was  enduring,  and  secretly  blamed  Cousin 
Franz  as  the  cause  of  all  her  trouble,  all  the  discords 
and  disagreements  of  her  life.     But  for   him  and 


"itea 


rSTE. 

nized   was  the 
jr  she  tried  to 
ly  to    practise 
id  she  succeed 
^       Her  little 
been  allowed, 
for  hours,  joy- 
she  understand 
rable  than  an- 
lody,   the    har- 
,he  impassioned 
rself,  and  made 
ng  which  every 
•ument. 

lier  dearly,  she 
3  injustice  and 
er  of  an  inno- 
g  her  from  be- 
L  she  had  fixed 
■t  as  her  future 
on  intelligence, 
e  struggle  her 
blamed  Cousin 
all  the  discords 
it  for   him  and 


COUSIN  FRANZ. 


63 


his  long  sermons  she  knew  that  there  would  be 
perfect  harmony  between  her  and  her  <^herc  jjetite 
maman,  that  she  would  be  left  in  peace  to  practise 
on  her  violin,  and  dream  undisturbed  her  bright 
dreams  of  future  success. 

She  was  not  a  selfish,  ungenerous  child;  she 
thought  first  of  her  mother,  her  gentle  uncomplain- 
ing little  mother,  bound  always  to  her  chair,  bend- 
ing her  tired,  childlike  head  over  her  colored 
muslins  and  silks,  fashioning  them  with  infinite 
care  and  patience  into  such  exquisite  imitations  of 
nature  that  one  could  almost  feel  their  perfume. 
Sometimes  Seraph  would  snatch  the  stained  fingers 
to  her  lips  and  kiss  them  passionately.  Then  the 
mother  would  lean  her  head  against  the  child,  and 
they  would  cry  together. 

There  was  a  stunted  Lamarque  rose  running  up 
on  the  shaded  end  of  the  little  gallery.  And 
Madame  Blumenthal  often  watched  its  restrained 
growth.  Sometimes  a  feeble  yellow  shoot  would 
struggle  forth  and  turn  directly  to  a  ray  of  sun- 
light that  touched  for  an  hour  or  so  her  small 
window.  Then  how  it  would  grow  and  grow ;  the 
sickly  yellow  would  change  to  living  green ;  tufts 
of  leaves    would    start    out    as  if    by   magic.     It 


'Sik 


||;ii 


'(,^  SEK^PH,   THE  LITTLE   VIOUmSTE. 

seemed  to  throb  with  joyful  surprise,  as  it  strained 
:;  aid  up  toward  heaven  by  the  pathway  of  the 

"in  the  spring,ng  ardent  growth  of  the  rose  she 
understood    something  of    Seraph's   longings    and 
mMlions,    "  AV  she  would  say,  with  .jppre- 
impatience,  "why,  why,  must    I    for^  the    '=h^1 
to   grow    another  way?      Why  cannot  I  1  t_  her 
real  up  to  the  sun  untrammelled  and  free? 


i 


*S-:;. 


UN  I  ST E. 


ise,  as  it  strained 
!  pathway  of  the 

li  of  the  rose  she 
ti's  longings  and 
r,  with  suppressed 
[  force  the  child 
cannot  I  let  her 
3d  and  free?" 


IX. 

A   GERMAN   INTERIOR. 

nOUSIN  FRANZ  was  very  comfortably  settled 
as  to    his   mundane   affairs.      A    year  before 
the  death   of  Carl   Blumenthal  he   had   married  a 
widow  with  one   little  girl,   and   beside   her  child 
the  young  widow  had  other  substantial  possessions, 
—  a  plain   but   commodious  house,  surrounded   by 
a  large   garden,  together  with   a   snug  Uttle  fort- 
une, well  invested  in   good   securities.     She  was  a 
member  of  Cousin    Franz's  congregation   and   very 
active    in   good   works,  a    practical,   commonplace, 
and  rather  narrow  person,  devoted   to   her   house- 
hold, her  child,   and  her   church.     If  she  and  her 
liouse- which  was   not   far    from   Cousin   Franz's 
place  of  worship -had  been  especially  created  and 
built  for  him,  they  could  not  have  suited  him  better. 
It   was   true   that  she   was   several   years    older 
than   the  young   minister,  and   not   at   all   pretty. 
She  had  a  broad,  colorless  German  face,  stolid  and 
mild  ;  light   eyes,  very  far  apart,  which   gave   her 
an  air  of  surprise  and  incredulity ;  and  a  comfort- 

65 


>  £  :!'■ 


I* 


66 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


able  breadth  of  figure  made  her  appear  older  even 

than  she  was. 

Her   little   daughter  Madge,  a  nice,  prim    chUd, 
looked  extremely  like  a  small  Dutch  picture.     She 
had   the  broad  face  and  large,  light  eyes  of  her 
mother ;  her  forehead  was  very  high,  and  her  soft, 
fawn-colored   hair  was  combed   severely  back,  and 
hung    in    a    thick    sleek    braid    below    her    waist. 
Her  plain,  dark  frocks  were  finished  with  a  white 
frill  at  the  neck,  and  the  long  sleeves  came  down 
to  her  little   thumbs.      She  was   very   gentle  and 
docile,  — a  perfectly  plastic   lump  of   clay  in  the 
hands  of    that    clever    potter,  Cousin    Franz,  who 
was  moulding  and  forming  her   into  a  vessel  of 
wonderful  perfection. 

If  she  ever  suffered  from  the  process,  her  calm, 
patient  little  face  did  not  show  it.      She  seemed 
contented    and    passively    happy.      She  was  very 
industrious  in   school  and  out    of    it.      The  duty 
of  each  hour  was  laid  down  with  the  rigidity  of 
the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians.     Her  recrea- 
tion consisted  of  a  prim  walk  with  Cousin  Franz, 
when    she  must  not    look   to  the  right  nor  left, 
but  advance  in  a  straight  line,  with  toes  at  the 
right  angle  and  head  stiffly  erect. 


fSTE. 

ear  older  even 

e,  prim    child, 
L  picture.     She 
it  eyes  of  her 
I,  and  her  soft, 
rely  back,  and 
3W    her    waist, 
i  with  a  white 
ves  came  down 
3ry   gentle  and 
of    clay  in  the 
jin    Franz,  who 
ito  a  vessel  of 

ocess,  her  calm, 
b.      She  seemed 
She  was  very 
it.      The  duty 
the  rigidity  of 
ns.     Her  recrea- 
h  Cousin  Franz, 
right  nor  left, 
vith  toes  at  the 


A    GERMAN  INTERIOK. 


67 


In  regard  to  deportment,   Cousin   Franz   was  a 
severe    disciplinarian,   a    thorough    martinet,    and 
there  must  be  no  deviation  from  the  narrow  lines 
laid    down    for   the    instruction   of   his  little  step- 
daughter.    When  this  walk,  which  was  more  like 
a    dress    parade,    was    over,    she    was    allowed    a 
half-hour  in  the  ugly  garden,  where  she  must  not 
hop  or  run,  pluck  a  flower,  soil  her  frock,  or  step 
on    the   stiff    borders.      Then    there   was  so   much 
time   at  the  piano,  so  much   time  at  her  German, 
and  so  much  time  at  her  darning;  and   after  that 
the    Bible   lesson,    the    evening   prayers,  and   then 
to  bed. 

Madge  had  given  each  of  her  parents  a  cold 
kiss,  and  was  on  her  way  to  her  room,  unbutton- 
ing her  frock,  with  much  struggling  and  shrug- 
ging as  she  went ;  the  time  allotted  to  her  for 
the  duties  of  her  toilet  was  very  short,  and  her 
little  fawn-colored  head  must  be  on  its  pillow  at 
the  stroke  of  eight. 

Cousin  Franz  and  his  wife  sat  together  in  the 
study.  There  were  a  number  of  well-filled  book- 
shelves, a  large  useful  desk,  where  Cousin  Franz 
prepared  his  sermons,  a  roomy  table,  on  it  a  few 
plain    books,  and  a    reading-lamp   covered  with   a 


68 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE   VIOLINISTE. 


green  shade.  Around  the  table  were  some  stiff 
leather-covered  chairs;  and  against  the  wall  a 
high-backed  leather-covered  sofa  repelled  all  ad- 
vances toward  intimacy.  It  was  very  evident 
that  the  occupants  of  the  room  were  orderly 
souls,  so  precise  and  stiff  were  their  surroundings. 
There  were  no  pictures,  no  ornaments,  no  little 
trifles,  which  give  a  familiar  and  homelike  air  to 
even  the  humblest  place.  Everything  was  cold, 
colorless,     a '/^     formal,    yet    withal     simple     and 

peaceful. 

Madame  Arnet,  in  a  severe  black  gown,  stitched 
industriously  at  her  needlework,  while  Cousin  Franz 
slowly  turned  the  leaves  of  a  very  old  book,  quite 
absorbed  in  its  yellow  pages.     At  length  he  looked 
up  and   said,  in   a   voice   of  extreme   satisfaction, 
«  Yes,  yes,  this  is  a  bargain,  Rachel.     I  have  not 
the  least    doubt    that    this    is    a    genuine    Robert 
Etienne.     Here  is  the  date,  Paris,  1515,  perfectly 
legible,  and  I  have  learned  that  there  were  a  num- 
ber of  this  edition  of  Justin  Martyr  printed.     I 

have  no  doubt  but  that  it  is  an  antique." 

« It's  old  and  dirty  enough  to  be  one,"  returned 

Madame   Arnet  indifferently.      "To   me    it   seems 

worth  very  little." 


jre  some  stiff 
;  the  wall  a 
pelled  all  ad- 
very  evident 
were  orderly 
r  surroundings, 
lents,  no  little 
omelike  air  to 
liing  was  cold, 
I     simple     and 

gown,  stitched 
le  Cousin  Franz 
old  book,  quite 
sngth  he  looked 
ine  satisfaction, 
el.  I  have  not 
genuine    Robert 

1515,  perfectly 
sre  were  a  num- 
•tyr  printed.  I 
atique." 

e  one,"  returned 
'o   me    it   seems 


A   GERMAN  INTERIOR. 


69 


"Ah,  I  daresay  it  does  seem  worthless  to  you. 
My  poor  Rachel,  I  don't  expect  you  to  appreciate 
it,"  said  Cousin  Franz,  with  gentle  sarcasm.     "  You 
are  not  a  lover  of  books,  especially  of  old  books; 
but  Monsieur  Nardi,  whom  I  consider  an  authority,' 
thinks  it  one  of  the  gems  of  the   collection   that 
he  made  in  Paris.     However,  there  are  others  which 
I  should  prefer  did  ray  means  allow  me  to  become 
their  owner.      An  undoubted  Aldine,  1595,  and  a 
Virgil  of  the  Barbou  Collection,  almost  worth  their 
weight  in  gold  to  collectors.      But  I  can't  expect 
to  own   such  treasures.     I   should   be,  and   I   am, 
thankful  for  this." 

From  these  remarks  we  can  learn  that  Cousin 
Franz  had  one  weakness,  and  that  was  a  love  for 
old  books,  which  was  not  shared  by  his  highly 
practical  wife.  She  did  not  understand  why  he 
should  be  enthusiastic  over  such  a  musty  old 
volume;  so  she  made  no  response  to  his  self-con- 
gratulations, and  her  face  was  a  perfect  blank  as 
she  stitched  away  industriously. 

Presently,  she  broke  the  silence  by  saying  irrele- 
vantly, "Dear  me,  Mr.  Arnet,  I'm  really  worried 
about  that  Stengel  girl.  I  think  her  voice  is 
going   since   she   had    influenza,   and   if    she    can't 


iU^'f 


70 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE  VIOLINISTE, 


Bing,  what   will  we  do?     There  isn't  another  girl 
in  our  church  who  can  take  her  place." 

Consul  Franz  made  no  reply.      He  was  examin- 
ing, with  a  magnifying-glass,  an  ornamented  initial 
letter,  and  Madame  Arnet  meandered  on.     "  There's 
another  thing,  Mr.  Arnet,  that   I'd  like   to   speak 
about.     I  think  Miss  Knoop  wears  her  hair  frizzed 
too  much   over  her  forehead.      I   don't   think   it's 
quite    respectable   for   an   organist   in   our  church. 
Couldn't  you  speak  to  her  ?    I  mean,  couldn't  you 
give  her  a  hint  to  comb  it  back.     And  the  tenor 
whispers  and  laughs  too  much  with  the  alto.     It's 
really   shocking.      I  don't   think   our   choir  comes 
up  to  the   expectations  of   the   congregation.      As 
you  are  so  particular  with  children,  I  should  think 
you'd   discipline  those  who  ought  to  know  better. 
Since  the  Metzes  have  taken  two  front  pews,  new 
people  have  come  in.     It  looks  well  to  see  a  car- 
riage and  coachman  in  livery  drive  up  to  a  church, 
and  I  think  we  ought  to  have   a  new    cover   for 
the    desk,    as    you    are    bringing    in    fashionable 

people." 

Still  not  a  word  from  Cousin  Franz.  He  was 
too  busy  with  his  magnifying-glass,  and  patient 
Madame  Arnet  subsided  into  silence,   only  broken 


^.stsmmmaib- 


STE. 


A    GEtiMAN  INTERIOR, 


r» 


i  another  girl 
!e. 

was  examin- 
,inented  initial 
on.  "  There's 
like  to  speak 
ler  hair  frizzed 
jn't  think  it's 
n  our  church. 
1,  couldn't  you 
And  the  tenor 

the  alto.  It's 
lu'  choir  comes 
gregation.  As 
I  should  think 
,0  know  better, 
ront  pews,  new 
11  to  see  a  ear- 
up  to  a  church, 
new    cover   for 

in    fashionable 

Franz.  He  was 
iss,  and  patient 
ice,   only  broken 


by  the  sharp  tick-tick  of    her  needle  as  it  passed 
througli  the  stiff  cloth. 

At  lengtii  Cousin   Franz   closed  the  new    posses- , 
sion  with   a   reluctant  sigh,  and  pushing   it  aside, 
said  in  rather  a  vexed  tone,  "I  don't   know  what 
IS  to  be  done  with  that  child." 

"Who?  What  child?  You  don't  mean 
Madge  ? "  cried  Madame  Arnet,  startled  out  of  her 
composure. 

"No,  no  indeed;  if  it  were  Madge,  I  should 
kmw  what  to  do.     It's  Seraph  again." 

"  Oh !  it's  Seraph  again,"  echoed  Madame  Arnet 
comfortably,  quite  as  though  it  were  a  matter  of 
course. 

"To-day,  after  I  left  Monsieur  Nardi's  shop,  I 
called  on  Cousin  Louise,  and  I  found  her  very  much 
discouraged  about  Seraph.  The  child  is  stubborn 
and  disobedient.  She  can't  get  her  to  practise 
her  piano  lessons." 

"  I'm  not  surprised ;  your  Cousin  Louise  has  in- 
dulged Seraph  until  she  has  lost  control  over  her. 
I  began  with  Madge  —  " 

"  My  dear  Rachel,  please  don't  deceive  yourself ; 
when  /  took  Madge  in  hand,  I  found  her  deport- 
ment—  her  training,  very  —  very  defective.     Seraph 


?• 


SERAFH,    THE  UTTLE   VIOUNISIE. 


rll 


to.  never  tod  the  benefit  ot  my  dUciplmc,  there- 
fore what  can  we  exi«ct  of  a  turbulent,  self- 
«mod  chad  left  to  a  frail,  injudicious  mother. 

"  No,  we  can't  expect  her  to   be   like   Madge, 
.aid    Madame    Arnet    meekly;    "d'e    haant    had 
Maditc's  advantages."  , ,  ,.       ' 

..  Louise  said  she  wished  Seraph  could  be  more 
with  Madge.    She  thought  Madge's  example  might 

benefit  her."  ' 

"  Oh  no!  oh  my,  no!  I  want  Madge  to  see  ver)r 
little  of  Seraph.  Such  a  light,  trifling  child,  crazy 
over  a  violin.  Not  a  decent  instrument  for  a 
eirl  They  tell  me  she  has  old  Bomeo  for  an 
Ldience  and  plays  on  her  violin,  dressed  in  her 
mother's  old  finery.  Madge  knows  nothmg  of 
«aeh  folly,  and  I  don't  intend  she  sha  . 

..Seraph  must  be  saved  from  herself,"  contmued 
Cousin  Fran,  severely.  "She  must  be  properly 
educated,  she  must  be  forced  to  study.  I  toU 
Louise  that  the  time  had  come  for  decided  action, 
and  the  weak,  indulgent  creature  only  cried  and 
«,id  she  could  not  be  l^irsh  with  Seraph.  Then, 
is  only  one  thing  to  be  done:  that  violm  must  be 

taken  from  her." 

..Yes,  it  must   be    taken  from  her,"  repeated 

Madame  Aruet. 


discipline;  there- 
turbulent,    self- 
lious  mother." 
be   like    Madge," 
she    hasn't    had 

»h  could  be  more 
s's  example  might 

Madge  to  see  very 
rifling  child,  crazy 
instrument  for    a 
d   Romeo   for    an 
n,  dressed   in  her 
Liiows    nothing    of 
jhe  shall." 
herself,"  continued 
must  be    properly 
to    study.     I    told 
for  decided  action, 
ure  only  cried  and 
ith  Seraph.    There 
that  violin  must  be 

rom   her,"   repeated 


A   GEKMAy  INTElilOR. 


73 


"If  she  has  no  violin,  she  can't  waste  her  time, 
and  then,  besides,  Louise  ought  not  to  keep  that  vio^ 
lin.  It  is  a  very  valuable  instrument,  a  del  Gesu  of 
Ouarnerius.  Carl  considered  it  worth  a  great  deal. 
They  need  the  money,  and  it  is  clearly  my  duty 
to  sell  it,  if  I  can  find  a  customer." 

''Then  why  not  do  it  at  once  and  end  the 
trouble?"  said  Madame  Arnet  placidly. 

"  I  mentioned  it  to-day  to  Louise,  and  she  was 
decidedly  against  it.  She  said  it  would  be  cruel 
to  the  child,  and  all  «uch  absurd  nonsense." 

'*  You  are  Seraph's  guardian  ;  don't  consult  Louise. 
Take  the  violin  quietly  without  her  knowing  it, 
and  when  you  have  sold  it,  there  is  an  end  of 
Seraph's  folly.  She  will  get  over  her  childish 
sentmient  for  the  violin,  and  will  take  to  the 
piano." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Rachel.  I  think  you  have 
put  it  very  clearly.  It  is  a  disagreeable  duty, 
but  I  owe  it  to  Carl  as  well  as  to  the  child.  Her 
future  career  depends  on  her  present  training. 
Yes,  that  violin  must  be  taken  from  her,  and  I 
must  find  some  means  of  disposing  of  it.  How- 
ever, I  will  consider  the  matter  very  fully  before 
I  act,  but  act  I  must." 


^.^-.a.^ 


"'lis 


I: 


l?i' 


;*,':' ,v 


lir:;. 


III 


ili 


Wi 


i»ii 


FRIENDS   ALL. 

FROM  the  moment  when  Monsieur  Nardi  gave 
Seraph  the  box  of   bon-bons   from  Pans,  the 
child's  heart  went  out  to  the  gentle  old  man  with 
strong  affection,  and  he   in  turn  felt  the  deepest 
interest  in   his   beautiful,   talented  little  neighbor. 
Suddenly,  without  expectation  or  preparation    two 
singularly   attractive    children  liad    come   into  his 
life     He   had   always  had  his  small  favorites,  he 
had  been   Oncle  'Nidas  to  half  the  children  in  the 
neighborhood  in  a  desultory  sort  of  way,  but  none 
of  them  had  taken  a  strong  hold  on  his  heart,  as 

these  two  had.  , 

His  little  protlgi  Marc,  after  several  weeks 
trial,  had  not  disappointed  him.  He  was  obe- 
dient, industrious,  and  useful,  and  often  he  found 
himself  wondering  how  he  had  managed  to  get 
along  without  suoh  a  boy.  Already  he  was  qmte 
a  companion  as  well  as  an  assistant,  and  so  .ntelli- 
gent  and  trustworthy  that  Monsieur  Nard,  allowed 

74 


FRIENDS  ALL, 


75 


iur  Nardi  gave 
rora  Paris,  ilie 
J  old  man  with 
elt  the  deepest 

little  neighbor. 
)reparation,  two 

come   into  his 
all  favorites,  he 

children  in  the 
f  way,  but  none 
on  his  heart,  as 

•  several  weeks' 
He  was  obe- 
i  often  he  found 
managed  to  get 
'.dy  be  was  quite 
nt,  and  so  intelli- 
mr  Nardi  allowed 


him  to  wait  on  his  customers.  If  the  boy  ever 
neglected  a  duty,  it  ^as  when  he  was  so  entirely 
absorbed  in  an  interesting  book  as  to  become 
oblivious  to  time  and  place.  There  was  some- 
thing a  little  abnormal  in  his  craving  —  his  hunger, 
one  might  call  it  — for  books,  especially  for  books 
of  history  and  biography.  Curled  up  in  some 
quiet  corner,  with  a  book  before  him,  he  was 
often  forgetful  of  time  and  the  requirements  of 
his  position.  ,  - 

Monsieur  Nardi  was  very  indulgent  and  gentle. 
Sometimes  when  ha  really  needed  him  he  would 
not  disturb  him. 

"I  was  so  once  myself,"  he  would  say,  remem- 
bering the  hunger,  the  unsatisfied  hunger,  of  his 
own  childhood.  "Let  him  get  his  fill,  let  him 
read  until  he  is  tired.  My  own  experience  would 
be  worth  nothing  if  it  did  not  teach  me  tolerance. 
At  heart  the  boy  is  good  and  honest,  and  I  mean 
to  make  a  man  of  him." 

But  Cressy  was  less  patient  ^'lan  her  master. 
Often  the  boy  would  forget  his  meals;  then  the 
old  woman  would  "wake  him,"  as  she  called  it, 
with  no  gentle  shake,  and  bid  him  to  move 
around  lively  and  earn  his  keep. 


I  1 


hl\ 


m 


m 

m 

>  I 
M 


im 


76 


Slk.lPH,   THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


«  Why  aren't  you  helping  the  master  ?  If  you've 
nothing  to  do  in  the  shop,  there's  plenty  in  the 
garden  to  keep  you  busy.  The  flower  beds  need 
weeding,  and  the  walks  are  full  of  grass.  You 
can  dig  the  grass  from  between  the  bricks  better 
than  I  can;  your  back's  younger  than  mine.  I'd 
even  rather  see  you  out  here  playing  with  Mon- 
key and  Toto  than  everlastingly  with  a  book.  For 
my  part,  I  don't  see  much  in  books  to  make  people 
deaf,  dumb,  and  lazy.  My  boy,  if  you  want  to  get 
on,  you've  got  to  work  more  and  read  less." 

Marc  would  laugh  and  flush  guiltily,  promising 
the  old  tyrant  +0  mend  his  ways;  but  at  the  first 
opportimity  he  would  again  have  his  nose  in  the 
objectionable  book. 

When  Monsieur  Nardi  overheard  Cressy  rating 
his  protkje,  he  did  not  reprove  her,  but,  one  morn- 
ing, he  said  with  careful  diplomacy: 

"Cressy,  ma  bonne  femme,  I  think  that  now 
our  family  has  increased,  you  need  some  help 
about  the  yard  and  garden.  Can't  you  engage 
that  old  servant  next  door  to  assist  you?  He 
seems  a  good,  honest  creature.  Let  him  keep  the 
court  in  order,  and  do  odd  jobs.  I  should  like 
him  to   sweep  the    shop   and    sidewalk.      He   can 


)LINISTE. 

laster?    If  you've 
■e's  plenty  in  the 

flower  beds  need 
11  of  grass.     You 

the  bricks  better 
r  than  mine.  I'd 
►laying  with  Mon- 
with  a  book.  For 
)ks  to  make  people 
f  you  want  to  get 
d  read  less." 
guiltily,  promising 
s;  but  at  the  first 
-^e  his  nose  in  the 

jard  Cressy  rating 
tier,  but,  one  morn- 
acy: 

[  think  that  now 
I  need  some  help 
Can't  you  engage 
assist  you  ?  He 
Let  him  keep  the 
3bs.  I  should  like 
sidewalk.      He   can 


FRIENDS  ALL. 


77 


be  very  useful.      I    know  his    mistress    has    not 
sufficient  work  to  keep  him  busy,  and  she  will  be 
very   glad   to  have    him    earn   something    outside. 
And,  Cressy,  don't  be  quite  so  economical  in  your 
marketing.      Remember,   ma  bonne,   that   we  have 
another  to  feed,  a  growing  boy;  and  then  this  old 
man,   if  he  does   extra   work,  he  wil!   need   extra 
food.     Give  him  plenty  of  good  strong  soup,  and  a 
chop,  now  and    then,  to  take  home  and  cook  for 
his   supper.      And  couldn't  you  occasionally  spare 
a  chicken  out  of  your   coop?     Anything  that   is 
left  over   will   be   useful    to   him,  and   I   shall  be* 
glad   if  you   will   help   him.     The   old    and   feeble 
need    plenty   of    nourishing    food.      And   while    I 
think  of    it,  Cressy,   buy   more    fruit   at    market. 
Children   like  fruit,   and   old  children  like  it  too; 
n'est    ce   pas,   ma  femme?      Still    another    thing. 
After  this  you  can   put   two   plates  at   my  table. 
I  have  decided  to  have  Marc  take  his  meals  with 
me.     He  is  very  neat  about  his  person,  and  now 
I  want  to  teach  him  to  eat,  as  well  as  to  speak, 
properly.     Do  you  understand?" 

This  a  little  severely,  seeing  Cressy's  frown, 
and  hearing  her  mutter,  "A  little  street  gamin. 
Monsieur  Leonidas,  at  the  table  with  you?" 


78 


SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


"  Yes,  Cressy,  at  the  table  with  me.  I  mean  to 
adopt  the  boy,  and  he  must  be  taught  to  eat  prop- 
erly. Do  as  I  wish,  and  we  will  continue  to  be 
good  friends."     -      * 

Cressy  said  no  more,  but  heroically  prepared  to 
do  her  master's  bidding.     It  was  hard ;  it  was  an 
awful  blow  to  all   her  prejudices,  but  it   was  her 
master's  order,  and  Monsieur  Leonidas  Nardi  must 
be  obeyed,  especially  when   he   spoke  in  that  tone. 
To  the  first  part  of  his  instructions   she   readily 
agreed ;   for  she  was  very  kindly  disposed   toward 
poor  old   Romeo,  who  knew    a   sure   way    to  the 
heart  of  his  dusky  neighbor.      A   little  judicious 
flattery  had  warmed  and  softened  the  aged  tyrant, 
and  already   a   great  many  choice  compliments,  as 
well  as  a  number   of   dainty   morsels,  had   crossed 
the  fence  between  the  two  yards. 

Romeo  never  partook  of  Cressy's  generous  dona- 
tions, although  often  his  mouth  watered  for  them. 
Every  scrap  was  carefully  carried  to  Louise's  little 
pantry  and  served  to  his  young  mistress  and  her 
child,  with  many  small  deceptions  and  prevarica- 
tions, which  we  sincerely  hope  were  not  set  down 
to  the  poor  old  negro's  account 

Food  was  scarce  in  the  little  household.     A  great 


tse 


,U..-^i,il,... 


IISTE. 

le.  I  mean  to 
ht  to  eat  prop- 
continue   to   be 

ly  prepared  to 
ird ;  it  was  an 
)ut  it  was  her 
das  Nardi  must 
te  in  that  tone. 
3ns  she   readily 
iisposed   toward 
re   way    to  the 
little  judicious 
;he  aged  tyrant, 
compliments,  as 
bIs,  had   crossed 

s  generous  dona- 
Eitered  for  them, 
to  Louise's  little 
listress  and  her 
!  and  prevarica- 
re  not  set  down 

isehold.     A  great 


FRIENDS  ALL. 


79 


calamity  had  fallen  upon  them.  The  musical 
director  in  Berlin  had,  on  account  of  old  age  and 
illness,  lost  his  position,  and  therefore  Madame 
Blumenthal's  small  allowance  was  stopped,  which 
meant  the  most  pinching  poverty  for  the  mother 
and  child.  The  little  wage  Louise  earned  by  her 
work  barely  paid  her  rent,  and  for  the  first  time, 
want,  like  a  gaunt  spectre,  stood  before  her  and 
looked  her  gloomily  in  the  face. 

Cressy  had  learned  of  this  new  misfortune  from 
Romeo,  and  Monsieur  Nardi  had  learned  of  it 
from  Cressy ;  hence  his  sudden  interest  in  Romeo's 
cuisine. 

Any  morning  early  some  such  conversation  might 
be  heard  across  the  fence : 

"Miss  Cressy,  is  you  dar?  How's  yer  healf  dis 
fine  mawnin'  ?  " 

'' Bien,  trh  hien,  Romeo." 

"Well,  you  is  suttenly  a  smart  lady  to  be  in 
from  market  so  soon.  Fur  a  fac',  yer  does  make 
marketin'  early.  My  Miss  Louise  she  doan'  sen' 
me  'twill  arter  breakfus,  'cause  she  gits  up  mighty 
late,  she  does." 

"  Poor  Madame,  she  is  ill ;  and  then  she  hasn't 
any  call  to  get  up  early,  as  I  have.      But  won't  you 


8o 


SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


take  a  cup  of   early  coffee,   Romeo?      I   dripped 
plenty.     Have  cafe,  m  lait  or  cafe  noir?" 

«  Well,  I'll  take  a  drop  o'  bofe  if  yer  doan'  mine, 
Miss  Cressy.  Yer  does  make  sich  good  coffee  ;  more 
excellenter  I  never  tasted.  I's  ben  a  good  cook  in 
my  day,  an'  I  know  what  good  coffee  is." 

^'Eh  Men,  Romeo,  and  have  a  miche  with  it, 
and  a  saucer  of  cream  cheese.  No  one  but  the  boy 
eats  cream  cheese,  and  there's  too  much  for  him ; 
and  I  know  you'll  like  a  little  pat  of  butter  with 
your  miche." 

"Thank  yer,  thank  yer.  Miss  Cressy;  you's  sure 
got  a  large  heart  an'  a  gen'rous  han'.  Bress  der 
Lor'  for  sich  a  lady  as  yer  is." 

« That's  nothing,  Romeo ;  I  like  to  give  to  them 
that  deserves  it.  After  you  get  your  work  done, 
come  around.  You'll  find  the  gate  locked;  but 
ring,  and  I'll  let  you  in.  I've  got  a  little  job 
for  you,  and  there'll  be  something  for  your 
dinner." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Cressy,  what  a  fine,  han' sum  lady  you 
is!     I'm  in  luck  ter  have  sich  a  frien'  in  my  ole 

age." 

"And,  Romeo,  I'll  pay  you  the  four  bits  I  owe 
you  for  cleaning  the  ^/indows." 


-355--. -, 


V 


OLINISTE. 

)meo?      I   dripped 

je,  noirr 

if  yer  doan'  mine, 
good  coffee ;  more 

)en  a  good  cook  in 

coffee  is." 
a  miche   with    it, 

No  one  but  the  boy 

00  much  for  him; 

pat  of  butter  with 

Cressy;  you's  sure 
9  han'.     Bress  der 

ke  to  give  to  them 
■j  your  work  done, 
gate  locked ;  but 
^e  got  a  little  job 
mething    for    your 

3,  han' sum  lady  you 
a  frien'  in  my  ole 

the  four  bits  I  owe 


FJilENDS  ALL. 


8i 


"  No,  no,  yer  doan'  owe  me  nofin',  Miss  Cressy. 
I's  willin'  ter  do  eny  lil'  job  fur  yer,  when  yer  so 
'stremely  good  ter  me." 

"  Oh,  you  must  take  the  money.  Monsieur 
Leonidas  won't  like  it  if  you  don't.  He's  very 
particular  about  paying  people  who  work  for 
him." 

•'Well,  well,  I'll  be  'roun'  by  an'  by.  You 
suttenly  is  a   fine   lady." 

Then  Cressy  would  go  back  to  her  kitchen  with 
a  grim  smile  on  her  severe  face;  and  Romeo 
would  slip  into  the  little  pantry  to  prepare  his 
mistress's  breakfast. 

A  little  later  perhaps  another  small  comedy 
would  be  played  in  the  front  of  the  two  houses. 
Seraph,  looking  like  a  morning  rose,  the  mists  of 
sleep  still  in  her  drowsy  eyes,  would  come  out  to 
the  little  front  garden  to  gather  a  few  flowers  for 
her  mother's  breakfast  table,  a  pretty  little  atten- 
tion which  she  never  neglected,  and  Monsieur 
Nardi  was  sure  to  be  sitting  in  the  shop  door, 
reading  his  morning  paper. 

He  would  not  appear  to  see  Seraph  just  at  first, 
but  would  keep  on  reading  as  intently  as  though 
there   were    some    new    sensation    in    the    closely 


•-♦ 


82 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


scanned  columns.  After  a  while  he  would  look 
up  and  smile  and  bow  with  old-fashioned  formal- 
ity. Then  Seraph's  eyes  would  sparkle,  all  the 
sleep  gone  out  of  them  in  an  instant,  and  she 
would  hasten  to  open  the  gate.  Skipping  along 
the  walk  and  holdhig  out  her  posy,  "  Are  not  thoy 
pretty?"  she  would  call.  "They're  for  ^jeftte  ma- 
man,  but  you  shall  smell  them." 

When  she  reached  Monsieur  Nardi's  side,  her 
hand  was  held  out  eagerly  to  be  clasped  in  his 
cordial  grasp,  and  he  would  say  with  kind  cere- 
mony, ^^Bon  jour,  Mademoiselle;  a  pleasant  morn- 
ing, is   it  not?    and  Madame,  your  mother,  is  she 

well?" 

To  which  Seraph  would  reply  with  her  piquant 
accent,  ''Bon  jour,  Oncle  'Nidas.  Mamma  is  always 
the  same." 

After  these  little  compliments  were  exchanged. 
Monsieur  Nardi  would  smell  her  flowers  and  dis- 
cuss the  beauty  of  each.  Then  he  would  ask  her 
in  for  a  moment,  just  to  say  hon  jour  to  Marc, 
who  would  be  busy  dusting  and  arranging  the 
books,  looking  sedately  happy  the  while.  The 
breakfast  table  would  be  laid  in  the  sitting-room, 
and  there   was   sure  to  be  a  large   dish  of   fruit. 


•-♦ 


■l 


he  would  look 
ishioned  formal- 
sparkle,  all  the 
istant,   and    she 

Skipping  along 
,  "Are  not  thoy 
'e  for  2)etite  ma- 

fardi's  side,  her 
!  clasped  in  his 
with  kind  cere- 
i  pleasant  morn- 
ir  mother,  is  she 


FKIENDS  ALL. 


83 


Monsieur  Nardi  would  select  the  choicest,  arrange 
some  grape  leaves  on  a  pretty  plate,  which  he 
would  fill  and  hand  to  Seraph,  saying  with  a 
cheery  smile,  '*  For  the  breakfast  of  Madame  ei 
Mademoiselle^ 

'^  Merci,  merci  Men,  Oncle  'Nidas,"  and  Seraph, 
her  little  face  full  of  morning  sunshine,  would 
hasten  to  her  mother  with  her  flowers  and  fniit. 


I 


dth  her  piquant 
klamma  is  always 


were  exchanged, 
flowers  and  dis- 
le  would  ask  her 
n  jour  to  Marc, 
d  arranging  the 
he  while.  The 
the  sitting-room, 
»e   dish  of    fruit. 


m 


AN    APPRECIATIVE   AUDIENCE. 

SERAPH  had  made  an  agreement  with  her 
mother  which  she  was  resokitely  trying  to 
keep.  She  had  promised  to  practise  the  piano 
faithfully  three  hours  each  day,  and  to  give  up  her 
masquerading  on  the  little  platform  if  her  mother 
would  allow  her  to  play  the  violin  three  times  a 
week  in  Monsieur  Nardi's  sitting-room  directly 
after  his  dinner. 

To  this  Madame  Blumenthal  consented.  It  was 
a  great  pleasure  for  Seraph  as  well  as  for  her 
appreciative  little  audience,  which  consisted  of 
Monsieur  Nardi,  Marc,  and  some  of  the  neighbors' 
children,  while  Cressy  stood  in  the  door  in  a  state 
of  enchantment,  her  eyes  closed  and  her  dignified 
old  head  wagging  back  and  forth  in  time  with  the 
bewitching  strains. 

On  these  occasions  Seraph  was  radiant.  Mon- 
sieur Nardi  had  made  for  her  a  raised  platform  of 
a  large,  flat  box  covered  with  a  rug,  and  placed 

84 


1.. 


AN  ArrKh.CIATlVE  AUDIENCE, 


85 


NCE. 

ment  with  her 
Litely  trying  to 
ctise  the  piano 
1  to  give  up  her 
a  if  her  mother 
n  three  times  a 
g-room    directly 

isented.  It  was 
well  as  for  her 
jh  consisted  of 
)f  the  neighbors' 
door  in  a  state 
nd  her  dignified 
in  time  with  the 

3   radiant.     Mon- 

lised  platform  of 

rug,  and  placed 


beside  it  a  small  table,  on  which  always  stood  u 
bunch  of  fresh  flowers.  She  was  very  sensitive 
to  her  environment,  and  this  arrangement  gave 
importance  to  the  occasion,  and  acted  as  a  stimu- 
lant on  her  artistic  and  impressionable  nature. 
The  only  flaw  ii  the  perfection  of  the  whole  was 
that  she  could  not  appear  in  her  usual  toilet; 
however,  .she  wore  her  be.it  white  frock  and  faded 
sash,  which  were  rather  shabby,  but  still  helped  to 
give  an  air  of  festivity  to  the  scene. 

Sometimes  the  child  pla^^d  so  well,  with  so 
much  passion  and  power,  that  Monsieur  Nardi 
regretted  that  there  was  not  a  larger  audience  to 
hear  her.  Although  he  enjoyed  her  playing  keenly, 
it  nevertheless  had  the  effect  of  saddening  him,  and 
in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  forget,  it  brought  back 
vividly  the  memory  of  the  disappointment  of  his 
life. 

The  dear  old  gentleman  had  had  his  romance, 
long  ago,  when  his  young  head  was  covered  with 
soft  curling  hair  and  his  eyes  were  brown  and 
bright.  He  was  so  young,  so  poor,  so  obscure, 
when  his  heart  was  first  touched,  and  the  object  of 
his  adoration  was  so  far  above  him,  so  worshipped 
and  flattered   by   the   rich   and   powerful,  that  he 


1 


r 


86 


si:kai'/i.  Tilt:  UTi'i.t:  viounistr. 


scarcely  dar»;<'  to  raise  his  reverent  eyes  toward 
her.  How  Li  i^itiful  she  was,  with  her  flowur-liku 
face,  her  beuaiing  eyes,  her  adorable  smile!  To 
the  t.'>or  bookworm,  shut  up  within  the  narrow 
bouniis  of  the  dark,  musty  shop,  she  seemed  like  a 
beautiful  vision.  Even  now  a  strain  ol  music,  the 
pink  petals  of  a  rose,  the  perfume  of  jasmims  had 
the  power  to  carry  him  back  to  those  foolish  old 
days;  to  6..] ten  his  heart  like  melted  wax,  to  till 
his  eyes  witii  hot  tears,  to  make  him  again  a  dis- 
appointed heart-sick  boy. 

And  Seraph's  eyes  and  smile  were  like  hers. 
Yes,  she  had  the  same  sweet  brown  eyes,  the  same 
innocent,  half-mirthful,  half-saddened  smile.  There- 
fore it  was  no  wonder  that  the  child  had  won 
her  way  into  his  innermost  heart,  and  that  he  was 
always  thinking  and  planning  how  to  give  her 
some  pleasure,  or  some  real  assistance  without 
seeming  obtrusive  or  wounding  the  delicate  sen- 
sibilities of  the  mother. 

After  these  little  musicals  were  over,  and  Seraph 
descended  from  her  platform  amid  applause  quite 
loud  enough  to  gratify  her  ambition,  and  bring  the 
flush  of  joy  to  her  pale  little  face,  Cressy  would  have 
some  dainty  ready  to  serve,  — an  ice  with  tiny  cakes, 


X 


fiW^MIwriV»Vwtfii*ifl'*%'iiiii>ii*iii 


iv-^ 


fSTK. 


b  eyes  toward 
her  tlovvur-likf 
lie  smile !  To 
in  the  narrow 
aet'uied  like  a 
i  ot  tnusic,  the 
if  jaanunt),  had 
lose  fooinh  old 
,ed  wax,  to  till 
ni  again  a  dis- 

,vere  like  hers. 
eyes,  the  same 
smile.  There- 
child  had  won 
nd  that  he  was 
iw  to  give  her 
istance  without 
le    delicate   sen- 

ver,  and  Seraph 

applause  quite 

1,  and  bring  the 

'essy  would  have 

with  tiny  cakes, 


7 


r 


/a 


^> 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


■50    "^^      HI^H 


I.I 


11.25 


PtiotQgraphic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14SM 

(716)872.4503 


..* 


.^. 


!*• 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


JW- 


Canadian  institute  for  Historicai  IVIicroreproductions  /  institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


^■■,'>-,.  --if  a^-"j.?-«v7'  ^''  -  ?*"^ 


/tJV  APPRECIATIVE  AUDIENCE. 


^1 


or  fruit  and  bon-bons,  —  and  Monsieur  Nardi's  little 
sitting-room  would  resound  with  the  merry  unaf- 
fected laughter  of  children;  and  Marc,  although 
a  little  awkward  and  shy,  a  natural  result  of  his 
neglected  childhood,  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 
scene  with  a  zest  that  surprised  his  benefactor. 
His  natural  good  taste,  his  imitativeness,  his  efforts 
at  self-improvement,  were  a  constant  satisfaction. 

"He  has  the  stuff  in  him,"  the  old  gentleman 
would  say  to  himself,  "  and  I  mean  to  give  him  a 
chance.  I  mean  to  educate  him  and  make  him  my 
successor." 

While  Monsieur  Nardi  was  making  his  benevo- 
lent plans,  and  while  Seraph  was  enjoying  her 
small  triumphs,  poor  little  Louise  sat  alone  in  her 
dull  room,  with  her  stained  finger-tips  pressed  to 
her  tired  eyes,  trying  to  think  of  some  means  of 
improving  their  sad  condition. 

"  Spring  is  coming,"  she  thought,  "  and  we  shan't 
need  much  fuel  nor  light  now  that  the  days  are 
getting  so  warm  and  the  sun  sets  so  late.  It's 
astonishing  how  far  Romeo  makes  the  market 
money  go.  I  give  him  so  little,  and  he  gets  so 
much.  Marketing  must  be  very  cheap  this  spring. 
But  Seraph  will  need  clothes ;    she  grows  so  tall. 


88  SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINJSTE. 

I've  made  everything  over  as  long  as  I  can.    I've 
nothing  more  to  fall  back  on.     Poor  chUd!   she 
needs  shoes  now,  and  a  hat.     It  makes  my  heart 
ache   to   see  her   so    shabby.      If   Cousin   Rachel 
would  only  think.     She  has  so  much  money ;   she 
might   give   Seraph   something  now  and  then.      I 
should  be  so  glad  if   she  would  give  her  Madge's 
cast-off  things.     I  have  no  pride, -it's  all  gone  in 
the   face  of   this  terrible  poverty,"  -  and  the  hot 
tears  sprang  to  her  eyes  and  glistened  under  the 
closed  lids.     « Oh,  Carl !   Carl !    if   you  were  only 
here !  "  she  sobbed ;  "you  were  so  good,  so  tender, 
80  generous,  and  now  I  have  no  one.     Ah,  I  must 
not  be  ungrateful,"    and   struggling   to   regam  her 
composure,  she  dashed  away  the  tears,  and  set  her- 
self to  thinking  again  of  ways  and  means. 

«I  know  Cousin  Franz  would  help  me  if  he 
could,  and  our  dear  old  neighbor  is  so  thought- 
ful I  mustn't  be  ungrateful,  and  I  must  not  be 
weak  and  complaining;  I  must  try  to  do  more 
work.  I  must  get  up  earlier  and  work  later.  Oh, 
if  Madame  Croizet  would  only  pay  me  a  little 
more,  and  if  there  was  any  way  to  retrench! 
There  is  only  one  thing  that  I  can  give  up,  and 
that    is    the    Ducro    Elixir.      It  costs  a  dollar   a 


TE. 

I  can.  I've 
r  child!  she 
ces  my  heart 
oiisin   Rachel 

money;   she 
md  then.      I 

her  Madge's 
,'s  all  gone  in 
-and  the  hot 
ed  under  the 
ou  were  only 
3od,  so  tender, 
.     Ah,  I  must 
to   regain  her 
8,  and  set  her- 
means. 

lelp  me  if  he 
is  so  thought- 
I  must  not  be 
y  to  do  more 
ork  later.  Qh, 
y  me  a  little 
r  to  retrench ! 
1  give  up,  and 
ists  a  dollar   a 


AN  APPRECIATIVE  AUDIENCE. 


89 


bottle,   and   that   is   a  great   deal ;   but   Dr.   Beau- 
jean   says  I  must  have  it.      It  gives   me  strength 
to  work.    I  don't   know  whether  I   can   keep  up 
without  it,  but  I  must  try.      We  must  have  food ; 
Seraph   must   have    shoes.      If  I   could    make  up 
my   mind  to   let  Cousin  Franz  sell   Carl's   violin; 
but   I  can't  — I  can't  take   it   from  the  child.     It 
may  come   to    that,   however.      We    can't    starve, 
and  we  can't  accept   charity  while  we   have   any- 
thing of  value.     Oh,  how  hard  life  is  to  the  poor 
and  helpless !    But  I  won't  despair ;  God  raises  up 
friends   for  the    unfortunate,   and   when    he   takes 
away  one  support,  he  sometimes  gives  us  another." 
Often  these  sad  cogitations  would  be  interrupted 
by  Seraph  rushing  in  from  her  concert,  flushed  and 
happy,  her  violin  under  her  arm,  and  her   active 
little  hands  full  of  some  offering  for  her  mother. 

"Uncle  'Nidas  sends  this  with  his  compliments, 
a  honne  houche  pour  petite  mam.an"  and  Seraph 
would  nestle  against  her  mother,  while  she  chat- 
tered as  fast  as  her  tongue  could  fly. 

"Oh,  mamma,  such  a  success!  I  played  my 
sonata  better  than  ever.  I  know  Uncle  'Nidas 
liked  it ;  he  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  cry ;  and 
Marc,    and    even    that    little    lame    Jacques,   just 


s;H%^4^i^«L')SiSfe.^4H^iv'^^-.i!rty^i!j»^ 


■9^ 


SERAPH,  THE  LIITLE   VIOUNISTE. 


iumped  up  and  down,  they  were  so  pleased  with 
my  caprice.     And  Uncle  'Nidas  says  that  1  play 
well  enough  to  have  a  larger  audience,  and  that 
he  will  ask  some  friends  to  hear  me.      Thmk  of 
that,  little  mamma!     Soon,  soon  I  can  give  big  con- 
certs and  e.rn  money  for  you.     Then  your  dear 
red  and  green   fingers  will   get  white  agam,  and 
you   shall   never  see  flowers,  only  the  real  flowers 
that  grow  and  bloom  for  you ;  and  you  shall  be 
well,  mamma ;   you  shall  walk  and   perhaps  smg. 
Who   knows?  perhaps  you  will  dance  like   this. 
And   Scrap:,   would    spring   up  and   whirl    around 
the    room  as  light    as  a  bird,  as    brUliant    as  a 
butterfly. 


'iTE. 

pleased  with 
8  that  I  play 
nee,  and  that 
,Q.      Thmk  of 
1  give  big  con- 
len  your  dear 
ite  again,  and 
lie  real  flowers 
you   shall   be 
perhaps  sing, 
nee  like   this." 
whirl    around 
brilliant    as  a 


■   iiff 


XII. 

TWO   CUSTOMERS. 

r\NE  morning  Monsieur  Nardi  had  two  impor- 
^-^  tant  customers.  The  first  was  Madame  St. 
Maxent,  who  drove  up  in  her  fine  carriage,  with 
a  glossy  black  coachman,  and  glossy  black  but- 
tons, a  long-haired  Russian  poodle,  that  lay  in 
the  bottom  of  the  carriage  and  served  for  a  rug 
when  the  weather  was  chilly,  and  two  frisky  fox 
terriers,  nicely  spotted,  with  ears  and  tails  of  the 
fashionable  length. 

•  Madame  St.  Maxent  was  an  mgante  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  To  begin  with,  she  was  of 
good  family;  she  was  a  very  rich  widow,  and 
her  elegant  mansion  on  Esplanade  Avenue  was 
the  envy  of  her  acquaintances  as  well  as  a 
large  number  of  her  friends.  She  had  the  hand- 
somest carriages,  the  finest  horses,  the  blackest, 
glossiest  servants,  the  rarest  dogs,  and  the  most 
costly  wardrobe  of  any  one  in  the  smart  set.  She 
was  an  amateur  in  art  and   music,  a  conmisseuse 

91 


i'ft 


93 


SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


in  pictures,  bric-a-brac,  and  old  books,  a  leader  in 
all  social  affairs,  a  patroness  of  talent,  and  best 
of  all,  a  generous,  large-hearted  woman,  who  was 
a  power  in  the  community. 

If  a  poverty-stricken  genius,  who  was  eating  his 
heart  out  in  obscurity,  could  enlist  the  interest  and 
patronage  of  Madame  St.  Maxent,  he  would  sud- 
denly find  himself  launched,  and  sailing  trium- 
phantly, the  wind  of  her  approval  swelling  his  sails, 
and  speeding  him  on  his  voyage  swiftly  and  suc- 
cessfully. 

After  Monsieur  Nardi  returned  from  Paris,  he  sent 
this  most  important  customer,  and,  without  boasting, 
he  could  say  friend,— for  the  fashionable  woman  felt 
a  sincere  regard  for  the  modest  old  scholar,  — a  neat 
catalogue  of  his  new  books,  as  well  as  of  the  rare 
antiques  he  had  collected  during  his  absence.  There- 
fore he  had  been  expecting  a  visit  from  her  daily. 

When  she  entered  the  little  shop  with  breezy 
cheerfulness,  followed  by  her  three  dogs.  Monsieur 
Nardi  with  a  beaming  face  came  forward  to 
meet  her,  smiling  and  bowing  with  old-fashioned 

ceremony. 

"  Ak  mon  cher  ami"  she  exclaimed  heartily.  " I 
am  so  glad  to  get  here  at  last.     I  have  been  so 


STE. 

8,  a  leader  in 
lent,  and  best 
nan,  who  was 

was  eating  his 
le  interest  and 
he  would  sud- 
sailing  triuni- 
jlling  his  sails, 
viftly  and  suc- 

n  Paris,  he  sent 
ithout  boasting, 
ible  woman  felt 
;holar,  —  a  neat 
as  of  the  rare 
bsence.     There- 
in her  daily. 
)p  with  breezy 
dogs,  Monsieur 
le     forward    to 
,h  old-fashioned 

jd  heartily.     "  I 
I  have  been  so 


TIVO  CUSTOAfE/iS. 


93 


ii  \ 


occupied,  so  many  engagements,  that  this  is  my  first 
opportunity,  and  I  mean  to  make  the  most  of  it." 

At  this  moment  the  three  dogs,  who  were  less 
well-bred  than  their  mistress,  showed  marked  signs 
of  Hostility  to  the  modest  little  Monkey,  who  had 
taken  refuge  on  the  highest  chair,  where  Toto  sat 
.  with  his  little  hand  over  his  face,  as  though  shocked 
at  such  unfriendliness. 

It  was  necessary  to  send  the  dogs  to  the  carriage 
and  banish  Monkey  and  the  marmoset  to  the  hack 
room  before  Madame  St.  Maxent  and  Monsieur 
Nardi  could  proceed  with  their  exchange  of  friendly 
compliments. 

.      "Ah,  how  well  you  are   looking;  your  trip  has 
done  you  a  world  of  good.     You  must  be  at  least 
ten  years  younger.     Paris,  beautiful  Paris,  has  the 
charm  of  perpetual  youth.     I  can  see  by  your  bright, 
happy  face  that  you  have  been  to  the  very  fountain 
head  of  knowledge,  that  you  have  had  some  deli- 
cious draughts.     Now  tell  me  what  you  have  dis 
covered,  what   new  wonder  you  have  seen."     And 
the  lively  lady  rushed  on   in  a  perfect  torrent  of 
small  talk,  her  high-pitched,  vivacious  voice  quite 
drowning  Monsieur  Nardi's  modest  remarks.     "  Yes, 
yes,  Aldmes   and    Elzevirs  —  charming,   delightful. 


'  lr 


I.  * 


u 


^  SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOUXIHTE. 

And  is  it  true  that  you  have  brought  me  a  Delphin 
with  variorum  notes?' 

"  It  is  really  true,  Madame.  I  have  a  genume 
antique,"  replied  Monsieur  Nardi,  his  face  beaming 
with  pleasure.  "  I  thought  of  you  when  I  discovered 
it,  and  ventured  to  buy  it,  although  it  came  high. 
They  are  rare,  extremely  rare,  and  the  Elzevir  is 
good,  — a  Pliny,  1636." 

«A  1636  Elzevir,— how  interesting!  How  charm- 
ing! But  show  me  all  your  treasures,  and,  my  dear 
friend,  be  very  considerate.  Remember  my  weak- 
ness.    Please  don't  let  me  have  all  I  want." 

Monsieur  Nardi  laughed  pleasantly  as  he  spread 
the  books  on  a  table  and  drew  up  a  chair  for 
Madame  St.  Maxent.  At  a  sign  Marc  had  taken 
each  houquin  carefully  from  a  glass-covered  case, 
and  dusted  it  with  an  old  silk  handkerchief. 

"This  is  in  very  good  condition,"  said  Madame 
St.  Maxent,  examining  the  Delphin  reverently.  "I 
must  have  it,  tnon  ami,  and  we  won't  haggle.  I 
know  you  won't  overcharge  me.  Ah,  really ;  a 
vellum  Aldine?  Now  you  have  touched  my  very 
weakest  point.  I  adore  vellum.  You  may  put 
that  with  the  Delphin." 

« I  had  another  Aldine,  a  Theocritus,  1596,  which 


;te. 

me  a  Delphin 

kve  a  genuine 
face  beaming 
n  I  dlHcovered 
it  came  high, 
the  Elzevir  is 

!    How  charm- 
,  and,  my  dear 
ber  my  weak- 
I  want." 
1  as  he  spread 
p    a  chair  for 
arc  had   taken 
18-covered   case, 
Ikerchief. 
'   said  Madame 
reverently.     "  I 
on't  haggle.    I 

Ah,  really;   a 
iched  my  very 

You  may  put 


;u8,  1595,  which 


k 


'lllilll'.lllil'ltf 


„it:i   i  '  I  til  II 


r^O  CUSTOMERS. 


95 


I  sold  a  few  days  ago  to  a  young  Lutheran  min- 
ister," said  Monsieur  Nardi,  with  a  little  regret  in 
his  tone.  "  Although  it  is  an  advantage  to  dispose 
of  them  —  will  you  believe  it  ?—  I  hate  to  part  with 
iny  treasures." 

Then  followed  a  long  discussion  on  limes 
d'occasion,  very  learned  and  highly  interesting  to 
a  houquiner,  about  the  veracity  of  a  Venice  Boiardo, 
the  genuineness  of  a  Verard,  and  the  condition  of 
several  volumes  from  the  Barbou  collection,  the 
excellence  of  the  various  Foulis  editions,  and  the 
authenticity  of  a  copy  of  Brandt's  "Ship  of  Fools." 
After  that,  bindings  were  touched  upon,  —  the  rival 
merits  of  Grolier  and  Payne;  and  Monsieur  Nardi 
convinced  Madame  St.  Maxent  that  a  book  they 
were  examining  had  an  original  Grolier  binding, 
by  tracing  out  the  nearly  obliterated  motto,  Gro- 
lieri  et  Amicorum. 

After  Madame  St.  Maxent  had  made  a  selection 
of  the  books  she  desired,  aired  her  knowledge,  and 
discussed  her  pet  hobby  to  her  heart's  content,  she 
arose  to  go.  Then  Monsieur  Nardi  remembered  to 
ask  after  the  health  of  Maurice,  her  only  child,  a 
boy  of  sixteen,  who  was  a  violin  virtuoso  of  much 
skill  and  talent. 


96 


SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLhVISTE. 


"  Maurice  ?  Oh,  Maurice  is  very  well,  thank  you, 
and  as  much  as  ever  interested  in  his  violin.  I 
often  tell  him  that  if  he  only  had  the  spur  of 
poverty  to  drive  him  on,  the  world  might  hear 
of  him ;   as  it  is,  he  will  never  be  anything  but  an 

amateur."  , 

«0h,  Madame,  I  have  a  little  neighbor,  a  little 
girl  who  plays  the  violin  comwe  tm  Tpdit  mge.  I 
wish  you  could  hear  her;   she  i*  wonderful,  she  is 

a  prodigy!"  ,    v     i 

Monsieur  Nardi  spoke  so  earnestly,  so  feelmgly, 
that  Madame  St.  Maxent  looked  at  him  with  some 
curiosity  as  she  replied,  "  As  a  general  thing,  I  do 
not  like  infant  prodigies,  but  as  she  is  a  proteg^ 
of  yours,  if  you  wish  it,  I  will  arrange  to  hear  her 
some  day  ;  and  perhaps  I  can  help  her  along.  You 
know,  my  friend,  you  can  always  count  on  me.  I 
will  think  it  over  and  let  you  know  what  I  can 

do."  XT      J- 

"ifern,  merci  hien;'  returned  Monsieur  Nardi 
warmly,  as  he  handed  Madame  St.  Maxent  to  her 
carriage.  ^'  1  am  much  interested  in  the  child ;  she 
is  fatherless  and  poor,  and  so  lovely  and  talented. 
If  T  can  depend  on  you  to  assist  me,  I  thmk  she 
has  a  successful  future  before  her." 


i 


'•'[   iiifinlwuji 


""^"iTii-nr-"::': 


=5=S5»r5< 


VISTE. 

k'ell,  thank  you, 
his  violin.  I 
id  the  spur  of 
rid  might  hear 
mything  but  an 

eighbor,  a  little 
n,  petit  ange.  I 
iTonderful,  she  is 

,ly,  so  feelingly, 
,  him  with  some 
leral  thing,  I  do 
she  is  a  protege 
mge  to  hear  her 
her  along.  You 
count  on  me.  I 
now  what  I  can 

Monsieur  Nardi 
t.  Maxent  to  her 
in  the  child;  she 
ely  and  talented. 

me,  I  think  she 


^^^   CUSTOMERS, 

Maxent  drove  aw;,v  «  n        •  Madame  St. 

■     Scarcely     LI"°"^^"'««^-"'  her  visit.     . 

-0,  another   csto  Jr  '"ni  ''''T'   '"   ''"'' 

;>-andhis,o„g,.rio:tt„LT:e°™" 
sion    of    pernlpvi-f..    ,  j     i-  '^"   expres- 

perpjexity   and    disappointment      \n 
few  desultory  remarks   ha      •  i  "^"^-     ^^^er  a 

"Iim  ./  '^'"'^^^^'''  ^'e  «aid  reluctantly: 
1  am  very  sorry,  Monsieur  Nardi  ihJj 
take  the  Foulis  Horace  as  I  hoped  lot      T"* 
was  last  here      r.v«        .  ^  ^°    ^^on    I 

-ke  it  'Z^ZTeZ  '"'  """"-^^  "'""" 
'o  spend  on  it     I   '    u  """'^  ^  '"'^ded 

">y  way  dear,  and  it  is  ^ ^,1    r       „\T  ^ 
""t  please  do  not  retain  it  Jl',""'-''^''' 

0-lr  !:^;',f°f-'"  -?"«■  Monsieur  Nardi 
for  this  copy   I  H  """""'"''  '  ''"''  "  «"»">">« 

P«-e  y7ll^r-^''  ^'''"  ^"»  "'^  "'  ^  - 

-cata,o::::,rrei^:rar°™''^^ 

"''o»eesWdhe.o.hin.and'rt^;;r„n: 


98 


SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


he   went    away  in  a  not  very   amiable    frarae  of 

mind.     , 

He  wanted  to  look  in  on  Louise,  to  learn  if 
Seraph  still  adhered  to  her  promise  to  practise 
three  hours  a  day ;  but  he  felt  that  he  had  already 
done  a  great  deal  for  his  cousin's  wife  and  child, 
when  he  had  denied  himself  the  much-coveted  book 
in  order  to  save  the  money  for  their  future  needs. 

That  same  evening,  Seraph  came  in  from  her  visit 
to  Monsieur  Nardi  in  a  state  of  great  excitement. 

"Oh,  mamma,"   she  cried  joyously.     "A  great 
lady,  a  rich  lady  who  lives  on  Esplanade  Avenue, 
has  promised   Uncle  'Nidas  to  hear  me  play.    Per- 
haps she  will  invite  me  to  her  beautiful  house,  and 
if  I  please  her,  she  will  help  me  to  become  a  great 
violiniste.     Uncle  'Nidas  says  I  could  not  have  a 
better  friend.     Oh,  mamma  dearest,  I  must  practise 
now  that  I   am  to  play  for  Uncle  'Nidas's  friend. 
You  must  give  me  time  to  practise.    Please  excuse 
me  one  hour  a  day  from  the  piano,  so  that  I  can 
learn  a  new  sonata." 

"Seraph,  I  can't  promise  you  that,"  returned 
Madame  Blumenthal  tremulously.  "I  must  con- 
sult Cousin  Franz  before  I  can  consent.  You  know 
we  must  not  offend  Cousin  Franz." 


ffi?3*J-AS^-"«I.Tsr3T  9T^"B'^:1 


i  t»t'."*WSI*!9£«'iW  - ' 


II 


fSTE. 

ible    frame   of 

e,  to  learn  if 
iae  to  practise 
he  had  already 
wife  and  child, 
ih-coveted  book 
uture  needs. 
1  from  her  visit 

excitement. 
,ly.      "A  great 
ilanade  Avenue, 

me  play.    Per- 
tiful  house,  and 

become  a  great 
uld  not  have  a 

I  must  practise 

'Nidas's  friend. 
.  Please  excuse 
3,  so  that  I  can 

that,"   returned 
"I   must  con- 
sent.    You  know 


XIII. 

A  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

o»e''  favor,  neither  do  I  17  '"*  '""'*'>  » 
appearance..     I  „„, '°  "  °"'  '™P'y  ^ 

the  evidence  I  Tt     'T     ™?  ^^'''™'=»'  -^  « 

»-,,  give  the  zztr:  r'  ^  ■'"•""•  ^ 

Without  Marc  m"!^  ^f"'  "^  ""«  doubt." 
had  made  a  gCt  ^1  "  "'  "°"™"  "arii 
he  interviewrParr'"'""  *'"'"  "'"■     ^-^ 

--o.withih::re:t;:t"^"'"^"-^«- 
'<'-::::::::';::t;;;^o-whap^ned 

'"«  he,t  manne,.  an  mj^  ".  '  '*''  "^'^  «"' 
--  children  thafsbZl'^K """"'""  """■ 
»-.  i-  a  «ne  houaeXltrCe^' 

99 


wmtm 


"•""Ti-iirniiiiwDwim 


,00  SE^APf.  THE  UTILE    VIOUmSTE. 

Since  I've  been  about  the  levee.    When  I  got  this 

r  be  wasn't  more'n  four  years  old,  a  runnm 
job,  he  wasn  t  m  ^^^ 

•round  the  wharves  an  luggers.    »"  =■ 

^  Too  used  to  Uke  him  off  on  trips,  an   sort 
"Tol  air "hn,  when  he  was  right  small,  but  Joe 

rf  atik  the  young  one  an'  'dopted  h.n.    u  j 
aidn-t  have  no  one  »«  look  out  "   » J  3- 

u;r«  Viprp   an  he  aint  sunereu. 
Upn'  mv  eve  on  him  nere,  ah   "'^ 
"  !hTs  aVays  had  plenty  to  eat,  an  a  warm  place 
,.  sS,  an-  that's  more'n  a  good  many  k.ds  g.ts 
I^  Uv  s  in  houses,  an'  I've  giv  him  breeches  a.; 
V   ,     !•  he's  been  clean  an'  whole,  cons.derm . 

rr^d  Le  from.    ---  ^  J^^ 

time   but  he  didn't  know  nothm  .    Joe  founa  n 
rit  on  an  old  east^ff  ilatboat,  a  crym   .n  a 

Ink  poor  little  kid!  all  alone  a  crym  ,  an  he  took 
^;  oHL  lugger  an'  looked  out  for  him  as  long 

".^;j::'allIknow,sir.    Joen.m«lhimM^. 

-•-rrr'i!::t:wfi:arne:t: 

sharp  little  chap.    Jes  look  how 

Llf  to  read.    I  tole  him  the  letters.     Yes,  sir  that  s 

Idl  showed  him,  an'  I  made  a  few  figgers 


II 


,7STE. 

rhen  I  got  this 
old,   a  runnin' 
1  old  Dago  man 
1  trips,  an'  sort 
t  small,  but  Joe 
I  a  had  a  missis, 
pted  him,  but  I 
r  him,  so  I  jes' 
dn't  suffered, 
an'  a  warm  place 
1  many  kids  gits 
him  breeches  an' 
vhole,  considerin'. 
ow   nothin'   'bout 
sked  him  many  a 
Joe  found  him 
3oat,  a  cryin'  in  a 
cryin',  an'  he  took 
it  for  him  as  long 

named  him  Marco, 
rt.    He's  a  mighty 
wr  he's  learned  him- 
ers.     Yes,  sir,  that's 
made  a  few  figgers 


^  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

on  an  old  date  he  picked  up,  an'  I'm  be  blessed  if 

l.ewas„taddi„' 'em  up  in  notice,  like  a  book- 
keeper. I  tell  you  he',  ,Wp,  an-  you  can  te 
hes  honest.  I  never  knew  a  honester  kid.  If  he 
picked  up  a  niekel,  he  couldn't  put  it  i„  his  pocket 
t.l  he  ast  all  'round  if  it  belonged  to  enny  one  " 
Mons,eur  Nardi  had  not  questioned  Patsy  in 
order  to   secure  testimonial    of    character,  but  to 

However,  th.s  spontaneous  praise  was  very  grati- 
^mg  to  the  old  bookseller,  and  only  coIflLed 
h.m  .„  h.s  behef  that  he  had  uneommou  discern- 
ment  as  far  as  human  characteristics  were  con- 
cerned. In  his  kindly,  generous  heart  he  had 
a  «ady  marked  out  a  successful  car^r  for  his  little 
prouye^  He  would  adopt  him,  educate  him,  and 
make  him  his  successor. 

,l,^'.r«  ""''  "'  ""''"  ""fcrtonate  little  waifs, 

little  children  who  usually  drifted  into  orphan 
asylums  or  houses  of  correction.  Providence  had 
ordered  hat  this  one  should  drift  into  his  empty 
heart  and  home,  and  he  meant  to  accept  this  ^ft 
gmtefully  and  do  his  very  best  to  Z  the  pi 
imie    weed,   the    outcast    scrap  of   humanity,    to 


^matimmmiamammimK&aimmm 


I02  SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

plant  it  in   new   soil,  to  cultivate   and   nourish  it 
until  it  should  become  a  flower  fit  for  the  garden 

of  the  Lord. 

Full  of  generous  intentions  and  strong  confi- 
dence, Monsieur  Nardi  was  in  no  condition  to 
accept  the  blow  that  fell  upon  him,  suddenly  shat- 
tering all  his  well-considered  plans. 

It  was  such  a  little  thing,  so  commonplace,  and 
almost  vulgar,  that  one  can  hardly  conceive  of  its 
bringing  about  such  ruinous   results.      One   morn- 
ing Cressy  brought  in  the  change  from  a  five-dollar 
note,  which  she  had  broken  for  her  marketing,  and 
handed    it,  as    usual,   to    her    master.      Monsieur 
Nardi  was  standing  by  the  open  window,  clippmg 
some  truant  branches  from  a  climbing  rose.    His 
hands    being    engaged,    he   told    Cressy    to    leave 
the  money  on  a  small  table  beside   the  window, 
and  after  he  had  finished  his  work  he  went  away, 
forgetting  to  put  it  in  his  pocket.     An  hour  or  so 
later  he  thought  of  it,  and,  much  to  his  surprise, 
when  he  went  for  it,  it  was  gone. 

In  his  small  and  well-regulated  household  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  finding  things  just  where  he 
placed  them,  and  this  new  departure  rather  annoyed 
him.    With  some  impatience  in  his  tone  he  called 


•MMauM 


«WilMI»«iBrt«»*»l<»'ll«*llilil 


'-■*•"■"  It- 


577?. 

nd   nourish  it 
or  the  garden 

strong    confi- 

condition   to 

suddenly  shat- 

iraonplace,  and 
conceive  of  its 
i.      One   inorn- 
om  a  five-dollar 
marketing,  and 
iter.      Monsieur 
indow,  clipping 
bing  rose.    His 
Jressy    to    leave 
de   the  window, 
:  he  went  away, 
An  hour  or  so 
to  his  surprise, 

lousehold  he  had 
}  just  where  he 
e  rather  annoyed 
is  tone  he  called 


^  OISAPPOINTMEXT, 


103 


to  C^^y  to  know  whe,^  ,l,e  had  put  the  money, 

»nd  to  h,8  astonishment  she  told  him  that  she  had 

""'  '''"  ■'  »'"<=«  "1"=  gave  it  to  hin..     He  had  no 
oa««,  to  donbt  Cress/,  „„rf.  .p.,,  ,  J 

niore  ,he  had   been  his  housekeeper,  and  he  h^ 
had  no  reason  to  sicpect  her  honesty 

Thinking  that  Marc  might  have  seen  the  money 
lymg  on  the  table  and  removed  it  to  a  safer  place 
he  ,„est,oned  him  carefully  and  kindly,  and,  much 
o  h.a  disappomtment,  the  boy  said  decidedly  that 
he  had  not  seen  it.  There  was  no  one  beside  Cressy 
and  Marc  who  conid  have  had  access  to  it.  ^ 

Had  po<,r  old  Romeo  been  about  the  place  that 
n ormng.  he  might  have  been  suspected;  but  his 
mmd  was  at  rest  on  that  point.  The  side  gate 
was  always  locked,  and  the  old  negro  could  not 
«nter  without  being  admitted  by  cLy.  L" 
fore  ,t  lay  between  the  servant  and  the  boy     It 

could  not  be  his  honest  faifl,f..l  „ij 

■.  u    .,  "unest,  laithlul  old  servant.    Could 

It  be  Marc,  and  he  had  denied  it ! 

For  a  moment  Monsieur  Nardi  felt  cold  and 
weak,  and  something  seemed  to  be  clutching  at  his 
heart.  The  boy  stood  Wo,^  him,  flushing  and 
pahng  .mder  h,a  kindly  but  searching  glancf,  and 
knowmg  human  nature  as  well  as  he  did,  he  thought 


ii«-«-«-T*iS'.,^W»j«.-,^«r-.-:\™«JA  SI. 


"P»* 


-"j":"J9^" 


w*5 


I::i 


I'i! 


,04  SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

this  (Muotion  indicated  guilt.  He  intended,  however, 
to  be  juHt ;  he  would  not  condemn  him  without  posi- 
tive proof.  If  Marc  knew  that  he  was  suspected, 
it  would  destroy  his  self-respect.  Therefore,  it  was 
necessary  to  conceal  his  uncertainty  and  perplexity. 
Disguising  his  feelings  as  well  as  lie  could,  he  said 
with  assumed  cheerfulness  and  confidence: 

"  Eh  hien,  mon  enfant,  I  dare  say  it  will  turn  up. 
We  have  no  dishonest  people  about  us.     It  can  only 

be  mislaid." 

Marc  gave  Monsieur  Nardi  a  pitifully  appealing 
look  as  he  turned  silently  away.  It  seemed  as 
though  it  were  a  nmte  entreaty  for  mercy.  Then 
for  the  first  time  the  old  bookseller  felt  how  strong 
a  hold  the  child  had  on  his  heart. 

All  day  Marc  went  about  his  duties  with  a  silent, 
dejected  air,  and  at  times  Monsieur  Nardi  thought 
the  boy  looked  frightened  and  anxious,  and  he  had 
the  timid,  uncertain  manner  of  a  persecuted  little 
dog  who  is  always  expecting  a  blow,  and  who  from 
habit    shrinks   even   from    the    hand    that    would 

caress  it. 

That  night  Marc  sat  huddled  up  in  the  dark,  in 
his  little  room  on  the  back  gallery.  His  only  com- 
panion was  the  marmoset,  who  nestled  close  to  his 


■■-— dk  I 


fSTE. 

nded,  however, 
n  without  posi- 
was  suspected, 
lerefore,  it  was 
and  perplexity, 
could,  he  said 
dence : 

it  will  turn  up. 
IS.     It  can  only 

ifuUy  appealing 
It  seemed  as 

•  mercy.  Then 
felt  how  strong 

es  with  a  silent, 

•  Nardi  thought 
ous,  and  he  had 
persecuted  little 
V,  and  who  from 
nd    that    would 

I  in  the  dark,  in 

His  only  com- 

tled  close  to  his 


^  OISAPPOlXTAtENT. 

neck  and  patted  hi,  cheek  with  it,  ,itt,e  «„ft  J,Z 
H  wu,  „„„g  ,ne„tl,,  and  Toto  brushed  off  "te 
'""  *""•»  ■"  they  fell  fr„,„  ,,;,  Nev.,  K  / 

■n  his  wretched  life  had  h„  f  ,.  ^""^ 

;;-  overheard  a  ^^z^::^' ::^ 

"Of  course,"  said  Cressy,  «he   took  fho 

wha^e■.ca„,„„.,,,,L„a^ir;L"■::?; 

"Why,  certainly;   but  Monsieur   Leonidas  J- 
^.s„ho„.thi„.elUhathew„„J 

took  il-  ""™  "P  ''^■"   <"><>»  the  boy 

^,--..nwo„der™H:r^ro:r.':::^: 

'■'  *  r^  J""  ■»»».  "nd  if  he  knows  he's  euiltvT 
■nay  have  him  punished.    He  deserves    t     I 
app«.vedofs„chahoy.«i„,,.„„;ri:-J;- 


it,:=-,r.-»»rwy«-tis«,IMffeS;^ 


Li 


dHw~r--'» 


,06  SEKAPli,  THE  LITTLE  VIOLINISTE. 

Them  wharf  j/amm  thmk  no  more  of  Btealing  than 

they  do  of  eating." 

"  I  'spect  yer  right,  Mis.  Cre.sy.  Yer  B«ch  a 
fine  »mart  U.dy  no  one  can  take  liV  things  'thout  yer 
knowin*  it,  now  can  dey?"  ,        ,  * 

"Not  .nuch,  Ro,neo;  V...  bo«„d  to  look  out  for 
„,y    „>aBter'»    property,    and  I    hate    picking  and 

stealing."  .  .        p     j 

..  Yer  right,  Mis»  Cressy,  shore  yer  right.    Good 

„ig.,t,  I  gne.  in  go  »„•  lay  my  o.e  bone.  do.„ 

and  res'  awhile.    1'  mighty  t.red,  I  «.    U'   hresa 

ver,  an'  good  night."  ,     „„j 

When  all  was  silent,  Mare  got  i.p  caut.onsly,  and 
went  out  into  the  yard.  The  bUnd  of  the  ».ttmg- 
^„.  was  open,  a  reading-lamp  bu.ned  on  the  table^ 
Monsieur  Nardi  was  there  with  a  number  of  book. 
Lre  him,  but  he  was  not  reeling,  he  sat  wUh 
his  head  on  his  hand  looking  very  sad  and  thought 
fal.  The  window,  the  same  window  where  the 
table  stood,  was  open,  and  Mare  softly  pushed  Toto 

into  the  room.  ,.    ,         .     , 

Monsieur  Nardi  looked  up  as  the  Uttle  an.mal 
sprang  to  his  knee,  and  although  he  stroked  and 
^tted  it  gently,  one  eould  see  that  he  was  preooeu- 
pied  and  worried. 


'--tiij 


^ 


1 


STE. 

stealing  than 

Yer  BUcU  a 
lingB  'thout  yer 

to  look  out  for 
e    picking   and 

jr  right.  Good 
ole  bones  down 
:  ia.     Lor'  bress 

3  cautiously,  and 
i  of  the  sitting- 
led  on  the  table, 
number  of  books 
ing,  he  sat  with 
sad  and  thought- 
ndow  where  the 
oftly  pushed  Toto 

the  little  animal 
I  he  stroked  and 
it  he  was  preoccu- 


w  o/^JPPowrMg/yr, 


107 


of  stubborn  pride  niind«rl  ivWi  ' ''  '"'^ 

go    th  It  T    l'"^  "  "  "'"'"'•'^  -"'«-  to 


* 


■^•iti.A-.-»;j*l!*M*i*-''^ 


14 


.    XIV. 

MADAME    CROIZET's    GENEROSITY. 

MADAME  BLUMENTHAL  had  been  unusually 
feeble  for  several  days,  and  her  dainty 
labor  had  been  performed  under  difficulties;  a 
bridal  parure  of  orange  blossoms  and  lilies  of  the 
valley,  of  exceptional  delicacy  and  perfection,  had 
been  ordered,  and  Madame  Croizet  had  requested 
Louise  to  spare  no  pains  in  its  manufacture. 

Poor  little  invalid,  she  had  failed  perceptibly 
since  she  had  been  deprived  of  the  much-needed 
tonic.  Seraph  fretted  about  it  to  Romeo,  and 
begged  him  to  try  to  get  the  Ducro  Elixir,  by 
some  means,  for  her  pauvre  petite  maman,  who  was 
suffering  for  it,  and  the  faithful  old  servant's 
heart  was  wrung  with  sorrow  because  he  was  un- 
able to  comply  with  his  little  mistress'  request. 

With  all  his  deceptions  and  economies,  assisted 
by  the  generosity  of  Monsieur  Nardi  and  Cressy, 
he  could  scarcely  provide  necessary  nourishment 
for  a  feeble  invalid  and  a  healthy  child,     At  times 

io8 


~ ' -■'•JSfne, 


EROSITY. 

ad  been  unusually 

and  her  dainty 
ler  difficulties ;  a 
!  and  lilies  of  the 
nd  perfection,  had 
zet  had  requested 
manufacture. 

failed  perceptibly 
:  the  much-needed 
it  to  Romeo,   and 

Ducro  Elixir,  by 
le  maman,  who  was 
liful  old  servant's 
>ecause  he  was  un- 
listress'  request, 
economies,  assisted 

Nardi  and  Cressy, 
essary  nourishment 
tiy  child.     At  times 


^^^   C/,0,Z£r-S  GEJVEJiOSfTy. 

pain,  and  it  was  so  exquisitely  natural  ^ 
PU-.  so  delieate,  that  Uuise  hun/o"'," 
raptured  witl,  her  own  work      SK„  t  7         ' 

garlands   in  a  large  lZt\  f  "^""^  ""^ 

^    "*'    "asket,  among   folds  of 
«°ft  paper,  and  was  waiting  for  Ko,„I  ,7 

them  to  their  destination.    Whi  e  .C      ^  T"' 
ffaypH    ««    *u      ,  '^"®  waited  and 

triumph    aid  !i    h  "'  *""  '■^'  ^''°'^"™'' 

struggle  with  I     1     de^nv  :    r';:  '°"^' 
taken  her.    Tears  nf  A  I  ''*''    o™-" 

m  on  the  b':rwrL  r^""^."  ,^'^''  »" 
I-tily;  a  drop  of  ITw  mi^  T'!^.:''''"  "^^ 
No,  no,  she  must  not  weep  1  'T '''*^- 

for  the  sake  of  her  chUd     sh       T    "^  ''""■« 

;«-t.hersu«ering,r:'t:!::Hx:rn:'r 


MiS 


mmmmmm 


f; 


I  ■■  |! 


I  lo  SEHAPN,   THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

She  heard    Seraph,  in   the    back    room,  as  far 
away  as  she  could  get,  practising  her  violin  exer- 
cises,   scraping,   and    running  trills  up  and  down 
the    strings,   from    one    chord    to   another,  wildly 
mirthful  or  wailing  sorrowfully.      In  her  present 
nervous  condition  she  could  not  endure  the  sound. 
It  seemed  as  if   the  flexible  bow  was  drawn  over 
her  tense  nerves.       It   tortured    her    and    almost 
maddened  her,  and  for  the  time  she  felt  that  she 
would  give  anything  to  be  rid  of  the  instniment 
of  her  torment. 

Presently  Romeo  came  to  take  the  basket  of 
flowers.  He  had  been  trying  to  make  himself 
decent;  but  his  carefully  preserved  coat  and  best 
hat  bore  the  unmistakable  marks  of  age  and  pov- 
erty. Nevertheless  he  looked  a  respectable  and 
reliable  old  servant  who  had  seen  better  days. 
Looking  at  his  mistress, -and  seeing  the  traces  of 
tears,    his    face    worked    pitifully,    but    he    said 

cheerfully:  ^ 

"You's  feelin'  a  lil'  down  dis  mawnm ,  Miss 
Louise.  It's  no  use,  yer  can't  git  erlong  widout 
dat  Jew-crow.     Yer  mus'  have  it,  an'  I's  er  gwine 

ter  git  it  fer  yer." 

"Oh,  Romeo,  you  mustn't.     I  can't  spare  the 


y^r^im    J  ,.y  _ 


r/STE. 

room,  as  far 
ler  violin  exer- 

up  and  down 
Einother,  wildly 
In  her  present 
iure  the  sound, 
iras  drawn  over 
er  and  almost 
le  felt  that  she 

the  instmment 

the  basket  of 
)  make  himself 
d  coat  and  best 
of  age  and  pov- 
respectable  and 
jen  better  days, 
ng  the  traces  of 
r,    but    he    said 

s   mawnin',   Miss 

it  erlong  widout 

an'  I's  er  gwine 

can't  spare  the 


■j-v-j^sv  A,\'«*i;ai^K 


M^DMK  CKOUET-S  CErnxosiTY.  ,  ,  , 

money       If  Madame  C^izet  .o„,d  „„,y  „,^ 

-meth,„g  „ore,  I  „igM  ^  ,ye  to  get  a"tt 
Romeo,  ask  her  if  she  will  «!«..„ 

more      T^ll   i,      .,.7  T      ^         ^^  "«  »  ""'« 
■nore.      Tell   her  that   they   have   been   very  diffi- 

cult,  and  double  the  work  of  ordinary  flower,     U 

you  explain  how  ill  I  am,  and  aak  her  ve"  n! 

"^ly,  I  think  she  will  be  ge„e:.„s  and  ;^v^  I" 
an  extra  price."  ®  ® 

I  kn '"  ?  **'''  "'°"''  ^^  ^''^-    I'"  tell  her 
I  knows  how  ter  speak  ter  a  lady,     m  jes'  ,W 

ow  yer  done  „o.  yer  p„.  ^es  olV  1  ''  L" 

Mm   flowers,  an'  she'll  gib  me  more,  doan'  f^ 

M»    Lo^e,  she'll    gib   me  mo.,   n  shoL    Ij 

^k  tb    b    J"      ""^  """'"'""S  — »-  Komi 
took  the  basket  and  went  out 

Scarcely  had  Eomeo's  footsteps  passed  out  of 
hearmg  when  the.  was  a  tap  at  the  door  and 
Consm  Fran,  entered.    He  scowled  with  disj^asl 

im  Hrr  bw™"" ^''""•'''' ^"■■» '^' "-" 

r  u      .  .         "'•'  ''"""°  '"'"'  >««  l^tening  she 
would  not  have  played  such  rollicking  notes      As 
.t  was.  Cons  n  Fran,  felt  that  the.  was  a    ortt 
defiance  m   he  light  bold  strains,  and  he  spoke  ™^ 
sharply  as  he  drew  a  chair  near  taise.  ^ 

There  she  is  at  it  again.    Really,  it  seems  as 


■^*- <.,■„. 


'  €^' 


iv 


I        £ 


„,  S£J>AP».  THE  LITTLE   VIOUmsTE. 

a   the  child   were    possessed    with    an    evil    spirit 
when  she  gete  that  violin  in  her  hands. 

Just  then  a  longJrawn-out,  uncanny  vrml  from 
the  back  room  made  Louise  shiver  and  Cousm 
Franz  almost  spring  from  his  seat 

"They  are  horrible,  the  exercises  she  selects;  they 
are  fiendish,  they  are  demoralizing,"  said  Cousm 
Franz,  a  hot  flush  passing  over  his  face 

..  Oh  Franz,  don't  blame  the  poor  child  for  the  char- 
acter of  the  music  she  plays.  She  uses  her  father  s 
old  books.    I  can't  afford  to  buy  her  new  music. 

"And  you  allow  her  to  go  on  scraping  and 
screaming  a.  though  she  were  a  «'«»  ravage? 

"I  can't  prevent  her,  really  1  can't.  Monsieur 
Nardi  thinks  very  highly  of  her  playing,  and  he 
encourages  her  to  practise,  Madame  S,.  Maxen^ 
is  a  friend  of  our  neighbor,  and  she  has  promised 
him  to  hear  Seraph  play  some  time,  and  the  child 
is  so  ambitious,  she  is  preparing  for  it;  she  is 
studying  every  spare   moment." 

"You  surely  will  not  allow  her  to  take  up  th 
violin.    If  she  once  plays  to  an  audience,  she  will 
get  a  taste  for  it,  and  it  will  be  impossible   to 
break  her  of  it.    Louise,  you  are  making  a  serious 
mistake ;  you  should  refuse  decidedly." 


.^f 


JNISTE. 

an    evil    spirit 
hands." 

janny  wail  from 
iver   and   Cousin 

t. 

she  selects;  they 
ng,"  said  Cousin 
is  face. 

child  for  the  char- 
e  uses  her  father  s 
er  new  music." 

on   scraping    and 
little  savage?" 
[  can't.     Monsieur 
:  playing,  and  he 
idame  St.   Maxent 

she  has  promised 
iime,  and  the  child 
ig  for  it;    she    is 

ler  to  take  up  the 
i  audience,  she  will 
I  be  impossible  to 
■e  making  a  serious 
sidedly." 


MADAME   CROIZET'S   GEXEROSITY.  j,, 

"But  think,  Franz,  of  the  advantage  to  her  in 
interesting  a  woman  as  influential  as  Madame  St 
Maxent.  She  must  depend,  for  future  success,  on 
the  patronage  and  kindness  of  the  rich." 

"  That  is  true ;  but  let  her  secure  that  patronage 
m  a  dignified  and  proper  way.  Let  her  play  the 
piano.  She  can  display  her  musical  talent  as  well 
on  the  piano  as  on  the  violin.  You  know  there 
IS  a  feeling  against  feminine  violin-players  —  some 
consider  it  unwomanly,  immodest.  She  never  could 
secure  pupils,  and  do  you  wish  her  to  go  about 
making  a  spectacle  of  herself  as  something  outri 
and  unconventional?" 

"  Oh,  Cousin  Franz,  I  think  you  are  extreme  in 
your  views.     I  am  told  that  in  other  places  ladm 
play  the  violin.     It  is  quite  fashionable.     And  I  am 
discouraged  about  the  piano.     Seraph  does  not  like 
the  piano,  and  she  will  never  excel  on  it.     I  don't 
know   what   to   do.      I   feel  as  though   I   cannot 
struggle   with   her  any  longer.      I  am   tired    and 
worn  out  with  trying  to  force  her  to  practise.     I 
feel  that  I  must  give  up  to  her  and  let  her  take 
her   own    course.     Oh!    I    wish    some   one    would 
decide    the    matter   for   me.     I   wish   I   could   be 
relieved  of  all   responsibility  and  uncertainty       I 


SERAPH,  THE  UTTLE    VIOUNISTE. 


'I 

;!!i 


i  < 

!  flu 

I  '  I'l' 

II  til 

I  ^' 

i|  • 


ir   not    atro^    enough    to    cope    with    seraph's 

determination."  i:«,,o«l?"  asked 

.Do  yoa   really    wish  to  be   relieved?     a»ked 

Cousin  Franz  alertly.    "  Now,  Louise,  you  are  begm 
Cousin  rra.  J  ^  j^^^^  ^^j  j 

„i„g  to  be  «-»"»"'.    ~  ,„„g,  ,„d  whatever 

will  think  of  some  plan  beiore  lui.g, 

Tlav  do  you  will  not  reproi^h  me  afterward? 

'  TISm  it  is  for  Seraphs  good.and  I  an.  sure 

,uL;eheriu.restas™uch.hea..Ih.^^^^^^ 

"Yes,  Louise,  trust  me  ,   L  win  a^^ 

""moment  neither  spoke,  but  the  violin  -nt 
„„  wailing  and  sobbing  like  the  cry  of  a  broken 

"'m  length  Cousin  Franz  arose  to  go,  and  a.  he 
toot  llise's  stained  fingers  in  his,  he  shpped  an 
Tnvel  ;  in  her  hand.  "  It  may  help  you  a  U^^ 
Tsaid  kmdly.    "  You  must  let  me  do  a  for  Carl 

"t^uise  said  nothing,  but  dropped  her  hot  f- 

■X  h.«ds.    When  she  looke^  "^^^^^f  ^ 

^    unri    she    was    alone.      Jusi    t-ub" 
'■:/    okt   o„    into  such  a  wildly  triumphant 
::::iubiLtt  strain,  that  to  the  grateful  invahd-t 

sremed  a  song  of  tha«ksgivmg. 


""Si 


7 


ISTE. 

with    Seraph's 

lieved?"  asked 
,  you  are  begin- 
it  to  me,  and  I 
r,  and  whatever 
e  afterward?" 
d,  and  I  am  sure 
irt  as  1  have." 
bct  for  her  best 

,  the  violin  went 
cry  of  a  broken 

io  go,  and  as  he 
lis,  he  slipped  an 
lelp  you  a  little, 
le  do  it  for  Carl's 

,ped  her  hot  faxje 
up,  Cousin  Franz 
Just    then    the 
wildly  triumphant 
grateful  invalid  it 


MADAME  CROIZRTS  GENEROSITY.  n^ 

« I  done  tole  yer  dat  Madame  Croizet  was  a  fine, 
gen'rous  lady,"  cried  Romeo,  entering  at  that  mo^ 
ment.  "  Why,  Miss  Louise,  when  she  foun'  out  how 
porely  you  was,  she  jes'  said,  '  Suttenly,  Romeo 
suttenly,  yere's  two  dollars  extra  fer  yer  mist'ess.' 
So  I  done  bought  yer  bottle  of  Jew-crow,  an'  I 
wish,  Miss  Louise,  yer'd  let  me  take  dat  oder  dollar 
an'  buy  dat  pore  chile  a  pair  o'  shoes;  her  111' 
footses  is  mos'  on  der  groun'." 

"  Blessings  never  come  singly,"  thought  Louise 
thankfully,  as  she  removed  the  wrapper  from  the 
bottle  and  prepared  to  take  a  spoonful  of  the  much- 
needed  tonic. 

"Really,  I  am  surprised  at  Madame  Croizefs  gen- 
erosity," she  said.  -When  I  asked  a  little  extra 
for  the  roses  she  refused,  and  now  she  sends  me 
more  than  I  expected.  Yes,  Romeo,  you  can  buy 
the  shoes  .for  Seraph." 


XV. 


m 


I  i 


WITHOUT  WINGS. 

„f+or  tVip  monev  was  missing, 
rpHE  next  mornmg  after  the  mm  y  ^ 

i    Monrieur  Nardi  descended  to  h«  sn  P 
rather  nnco,nfortab,e  fran,e  of  ;'"^.-\X;l 
prted  to  see  €re»y  d«»tmg  and  puttmfc  g 

orfer  after  her  ancient  cu.U.m.  .^  ^^,., 

"Why.  Cressy,  how  is  this, 
he  asked,  with  a  ptrfed  look  ^ 

.1   don't  know,  raonsiew,   he    >»    "<" 
think  he  climbed  the  fence  and  went  away  hu, 

"twhy,  Cressy,  you  ^rprise  me.    Why  should  he 

go  away  without  telltag  «>«'  j  ^^ink  he 

"I  think  he  wa«  afraid,  monsieur, 
was  guilty,  and  he  thought  you  might  have  him 

'""oh^Cressv    nu.  K»ne,  you    don't    think  him 
"  Oh,  tressy,  w«  '  ^^    ^^^^^jg 

■,         ,9"   nakpd  Monsieur  iNarai, 
guilty,  do  you?     a«Kea 

faltering  as  he  spoke.  runniuK  away." 

«It  looks  very  bad,  monsieur,  his  running 

it6 


jy  was  missing, 

his  shop  in  a 

1,  and  was  sur- 

itting  things  in 

here  is  Marc?" 

is    not  here;    I 
went  away  last 

Why  should  he 

ieur;    I  think  he 
might  have  him 

don't    think  him 
r  Nardi,  his  voice 

his  running  away" 


WITHOUT   WINGS, 

J  uiHiionest.    1  am  never  mistalcpn  ;« 
«„.ate  or    owe.  a..a    M..    C;  Z 

"  I  am  sorrjr  to  undeceive  you,   m„„sie„,,   b„t 

nrst  time  smee    I've    bppn   J«    ,,^ 

^®"   '"    youi*    Kservice.   IVp 
m.s»e^^f„^  and  g^eW.;„„e„„„h  ,,:,'„: 
■ts  true,  but    just  enough  to  convince    n.e    tha 
-me  one  about  here  wa,  picking  and  si^aling 

thTree'-  *"'  '"'"'  '^  "°™*   -'  '■'»  '»-«^  on 

"Oh,  poor  child!     If  1  thought  he  took  food 

17'  one  who  .a,  hungry,  I  could  not  bUmI 

hari'k^.^"'' '"''' "''"''""'"-"-"'-houid 

asked,  t  s  true,  but  no  doubt  he  was  shy  and  a 
ta  le  afra.d.  And  you  must  ^member  that  he 
h^  never  been  taught  the  nice  diffe^nces  between 
r.ght  and  wrong.  Why,  I  daresay  he  thought 
t  was  nght  to  take  from  one  who  has  plenty 
to  give  to  one  who  has  nothing "    '  ^ 

Poor  Monsieur    Na«ii,  i„  his  desire  to  defend 


s^^^'M^^^ 


m 
m 


Marc.  »uda.,.ly   found  bim^elt    «<""">«""8  j  ^^ 
deptU»  of   a  social   proble.u,   frou.   »'"«'''   J^ 
Jed  to  extricate    himself  with    some    con  u,.on^ 
.You  know,  Creasy.  1  don't  mean  to  »ay  that  1 
J::  i.  woJld  he  rig,>t.  but  the  child  m  1.  .«n^ 
nnce  might  look  at  it  in  that  way.    I  am  very 
S  lorried.    1  must  try  U>  find  him,  poor  l.tUe 
3 'aid  1  must  teach  him  to  a.k  for  what  he 

"tlfl  might  venture  to  advise  you,  monsieur,  I 
Jlsay'that    you  had    better  -t     ™.  J^!"" 

.ack.    If  you  do   he-1,  ->;» /^ -,;-"^ Vt 
"  Thank  you,  Cressy,  but  I  snau  j    k 

„yj„,"  returned  Monsieur  Nardi,  a  httle  stiffly, 

M  he  took  his  hat  and  went  out. 

"hs  destination  was  the  leve«,  whe,.  he  hope* 

to  find  Patsy,  the  watchman.     After  some  «»^h. 

L  he  came  across  the  old  man  sitting  on  a  bale 
of  I  ton,  watching  with  sorrowful,  anx.ous  eyes 
a  C  s;amer  swiftly  disappearing  around  a  bend 

*"  **"  f  ■     •  „  mv  friend"  said  Monsieur  N«di 
"Good  mornmg,  my  trienu, 

"'"'o'ood    morning,    sir,"   returned    the   old  n»„ 
gettfng   stiffly  to  his  feet,  his  watchful  eyes  stdl 


STE. 

dering  In  the 
vhicli  he  has- 
nie  confusion, 
to  say  that  1 
Id  in  his  igno- 
y.  I  am  very 
him,  poor  little 
U  for  what  he 

ou,  monsieur,  I 
not    bring   him 
more  trouble." 
11  judge  of  that 
,  a  little   stiffly, 

where  he  hoped 
ter  some  search- 
sitting  on  a  bale 
Eul,  anxious  eyes 
ig  around  a  bend 

d  Monsieur  Nardi 

ed    the   old  man, 
mtchful  eyes  still 


WITHOUT   WINGS. 


119 


fixed   on   the  spot   where   only   the  smoke  of   tlie 
ship  wa.s  visible. 

"  I  came  down  to  ask  you  if  you  had  seen  Marc 
this  morning,"  began  Monsieur  Nardi  cautiously. 
"There  was  a  little  trouble  yesterday,  —  a  little 
misunderstanding,— and  the  boy  might  have  thought 
I  blamed  him.  Well,  in  short,  he  went  away  last 
night  without  my  knowledge,  and  I  want  to  find 
him  to  explain,  to  talk  the  matter  over.  I  sup- 
pose he  came  to  you." 

"Yes,  sir,  he  come  to  me;  poor  little  shaver, 
he  was  all  broke  up.  He  told  me  about  it,  about 
the  money  bein'  took — " 

"But  I  didn't  accuse  him,"  interrupted  Mon- 
sieur Nardi.  "Although  circumstances  are  against 
him,  I  caii't  think  he  took  it." 

"He  didn't,  sir,  he  didn't.  My  old  life  ain't 
worth  much,  but  I'd  stake  it  on  the  boy's  inno- 
cence. I  never  knowed  an  honester  youngster. 
The  fellers  used  to  poke  fun  at  him;  when  he 
come  across  a  nickel  he  was  al'ays  so  sot  on 
findin'  an  owner  for  it.  Poor  little  chap!  I  was 
right  sorry  for  him.  We  sot  here  nearly  all  night 
a  talkin'  of  it  over.  He  was  cut  up  to  think 
you  s'spected  him." 


mmisi^i 


I20 


«.,x./w.  7/«  urru:  noumsTS. 


:  l    ov.'rh.a>a  y.«  ,.„.,„v,l  w,„„a„  -ay  t  «t  )- 
h  ,■   ni,l.l  in   your   huus-.  it    yo»    l^-ed    ... 

:;;:a  uuef.  >.  i..  K-t  t.«k  au  ut  o«t  «..c.-ut 

"'"l  didut,  Pat-y,  1  .lidn'l."  »a>a  M.m«e..r  Nardi 

ac.oide.lly.    "  1  .-."»t  -  ''•""  "•"'  '^"r"""  '""'■ 
must  hav«  a  tidk  with  hiu.  at  ouce. 

:  You  cau't,  «r-,   he-  on   tlutt  EukI.-U   »tea„>e,. 
thaf,  iu,t  went  around  the  bead.    He.  on  h»  way 

^'o:rwlytoLive.poo>r•andMo„.e„.Nan,•. 

«.t  down  on  the  cotton  bale,  a»  -uddenly  and  weakly 
:iflhadreeeivedablow."Really.th.H.a,hock^ 

t,„„„ .  _  gone  away  without  n>y  »eeu.g  hnn,  without 

•    ,  l,im  1  and  I  had  so  nu.eh  to  say  to  hnn. 
convnuuni;  Uun '.  ana     ii»"  :„,.„rtea 

I  intended  to  take  hhn  home  w.th  n,e.  I  mtended 
to  show  him  that  I  had  confidence  m  Imn.  1  »  » 
^  disappointment;  I  Uked  the  boy,  Patsy,  I  bked 

"^'^  he  was  that  fond  of  yon,  sir,  an'  all  them 
hooks,  that  it  most  broke  the  little  feller,  heart  to 
go  off  an'  leave  it  all." 


rrsTR. 

,  \w  sliould  iu)t 
I  ht'  think  ho?" 
an  Hay  that  y<)>» 
.  couldn't  Hleep 
^ou    b'lieved    »it' 

lit   out   aeeret 

.  -I    ' 

Monsieur  Nardi 
convince  him.     1 

!e. 

Englinh   steamer 
He's  on  his  way 

d  Monsieur  Nardi 
denly  and  weakly 
illy,  this  is  a  shock, 
seing  him,  without 
leh  to  say  to  him. 
h  me.     1  intended 
ice  in  hhn.     U's  a 
boy,  Patsy,  I  liked 

u,  air,  an  all  them 
tie  feller's  heart  to 


wiTHoar  WINGS. 


til 


"  But  wl,     (lid  he  go  MO   soon  ?     Why   didn't    he 
wait  to  .stw  mc?" 

"  Well,  you  sec,  .sir,  if  thcre'.s  one  thing  in  crea- 
tion them  little  wharf  rats  i.s  afraid  of,  it's  copiM-rs. 
They're  brought  up  to  be  afraid  of  'efn  '(.ause  they 
knows  they'll  be  run  in  f,>r  mos'   nothin',  an'  Marc 
»••'  tbought  you  might  have  Imu  "rested  on  s'.spicion, 
so  he  lit  out,  an'  he  had  a  (irst-rate  chance.      The 
<"il>in-boy  on  that  ship  didn't  turn  up  this  mornin'. 
They  didn't  want  to  put  to  sea  without  one,  so  I 
spoke   a  good    wor.1   for   Marc,  an'    they   took   me 
right  up.     The  little  lad   was  down  in  the  mouth 
to  go   off   so   sudden    like,  but   he's   got    plenty   o* 
Hand,  he  has,  an'  he'll  chirp  up  an'  be  as  chipper  as 
a  bird  'fore  he  gits  to  the  Gulf." 

"When  do  you  think  he  will  be  back?"  asked 
Monsieur  Nardi,  in  a  trenudous  voice. 

"Oh,  nobody  can't  tell  that.  He  might  come 
back  on  the  same  ship,  an'  he  might  conclude  to 
stay  over  there." 

"  Well,  I  must  find  some  means  of  communicat- 
ing with  the  boy.  I  must  try  to  induce  him  to 
come  back.  I  can't  give  him  up.  Thank  you, 
Patsy,  for  your  information,"  and  Monsieur  Nardi 
walked  away  with  bent  head   and  uncertain  steps, 


122  SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOUNISTE.  - 

It  seemed  as  if  he  were  suddenly  surrounc'ed  with 
the  ruins  of  his  shattered  hopes. 

«0h,  mamma,  I've  some  good  news  for  you," 
cried  Seraph,  one  morning,  rushing  joyously  mto 
her  mother's  room.  "Madame  St.  Maxent  and 
Monsieur  Maurice  are  coming  to-morrow  to  hear 
me  play.  Uncle  'Nidas  has  arranged  it  all.  What 
shall  I  wear?  I  must  look  nice,  and  I  must  prac- 
tise all  day  to-day.     Yes,  mamma,  you  must  let  me 

have  all  day." 

« My  dear  child,  you  are  making  me   suffer  too 
much,"  cried  Louise  piteously.     "Only  last  evening 
I  promised  Cousin  Franz  to  insist  on  your  resummg 
your  practice  on  the  piano.     He  was  here  after  you 
went  to  bed,  and  lectured  me  severely  because  I 
allowed  you  to   play   for   Monsieur  Nardi.     Now, 
listen  a  moment,  darling,  and  be  reasonable.     Won  t 
you  help  your  poor  little  mother  to  keep  her  promise 
to  Cousin  Franz?    You  know  how  good  he  is.    He 
is  denying  himself  to  help  us,  and  it  is  for  your 
own  interest  to  give  up  the  violin.    Seraph,  wont 
you  listen  to  me?    Won't  you  give  it  up?" 

"  I  can't,  mamma,  I  can't,"  cried  the  child  passion- 
ately.   "I  couldn't  live  without   my  violin.    It  is 


niiiirirgi  mbmV 


nmmtmmitr:.- 


OUNISTE.  ,  - 

y  surrounc'ed   with 

»d  news  for  you," 
ihing  joyously  into 
;  St.  Maxent  and 
to-morrow  to  hear 
mged  it  all.  What 
e,  and  I  must  prac- 
la,  you  must  let  me 

king  me   suffer  too 
"Only  last  evening 
3t  on  your  resuming 
3  was  here  after  you 
severely  because   I 
isieur   Nardi.     Now, 
e  reasonable.     Won't 
r  to  keep  her  promise 
tiow  good  he  is.    He 
,  and  it  is   for  your 
^iolin.    Seraph,  won't 
1  give  it  up?" 
ried  the  child  passion- 
)ut   my  violin.     It  is 


WITHOUT   WINGS. 


123 


all  I  have  to  make  me   happy,  to  lift   me  up,  up 
to  Jie  sky.     I  should  be  like  a  bird  without  win/ 
>namma.    Think  what  a  bird  would  be  without  wings' 
^"Ppose    it    could    only  crawl    and    creep   in   the 
sliadows,   and   never  fly   in    the    .sunlight.      Don't 
you /../,  mamma,  that  I  can't  give  up  my  violmV' 
"  Yes,  my  darling,  I  fed  it,   and   that  is  why  I 
suffer  so ;   but   let   me  tell  you  something.     Long 
ago  I  felt  as  you  do.     I  felt  that  1  could  not  give 
"P  my  singing;  I  struggled  against  my  dear  mother's 
wishes,   until  at   last  she  yielded   to   me.     I   was 
wrong.     Seraph,  look  at  me;  I  am  the  poor  maimed 
bird  without  wings." 

The  child's  face  grew  pale,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  "Yes,  mamma,  I  know;  but  your 
mother  did  not  do  it." 

"No  my  mother  did  not  do  it,  but  I  disobeyed 
her,  and  I  was  punished.  I  was  deprived  of  my 
wings."  ^ 

"Poor  mamma!"  sobbed  Seraph,  clinging  to  her 
mothers  neck  and  Icissing  her.  "I  Wt  disobey 
you  agam.  I  „•«  study  the  piano  ever,  day  I 
can  do  both,  I  can  play  on  both;  only  allow  me  to 
praot.se  my  violin  to-day,  because  Uncle  'Nidas  has 
promised  for  me.    Say  yes,  j,MU  numm,  and  you 


,J4  SEKAPH.  THE  UTTLE   VIOUmSTE. 

Win  see  how  good  I  can  te."  And  Seraph  wi^ 
away  her  tear,  and  went  hurriedly  to  get  her  v.ohn, 
while  her  mother  was  in  a  relenting  mood. 

With  eager,  trembling  hands  she  raised  the  cover 
o{  the  case.    It  was  empty,  the  violin  was  gone. 


UNISTE. 


nd  Seraph  wiped 
'  to  get  her  violin, 
;ing  mood. 
e  raised  the  cover 
violin  was  gone! 


XVI. 

THE   WOUNDED  BIRD. 

TX^HEN  Seraph  opened  the  violin  case  and  saw 
that  it  was  empty,  she  flew  to  her  mother, 
and  clutching  her  fiercely  by  the  shoulder,  cried  in 
a  voice  of  passionate  resentment,  "Mamma,  where 
is  my  violin  ?    Tell  me  where  it  is !  " 

For  the  first  time  poor  Louise  cowered  under  the 
searching  look  of  her  child,  and  her  face  crimsoned 
with  a  feeling  akin  to  guilt,  but  with  a  desperate 
effort  to  be  calm  and  decided  she  said  firmly  : 

"Seraph,  you  are   forgetting  yourself.     You  are 

not  respectful.     Control  your  temper,  and  I  will 

answer  you.     Cousin  Franz  must  have  taken  the 

violin  with  him  last    e  aning.     I    did   not   know 

it    was    gone,  but  I  knew  that    he   intended    to 
sell  it." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  how  could  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Seraph, 
her  wide  eyes  full  of  dismay.  "  How  could  you  sell 
papa's  violin?    How  could  you?" 

"I  did  not  wish  to,  my  child.  It  hurts  me 
a«  deeply  as  it  hurts  you,"  faltered  Louise j    "but 

"S 


.  ijiis^**^'' 


^^  SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

Cousin  Franz  insisted.  He  ma^e  me  feel  that  it 
was  my  duty;  but  I  did  not  think  he  intended  to 
do  it  just  yet.     I  did  not  know  he  intended  to  Uke 

it  last  night."  ,    .    ,    .     •  u* 

«It  was  gone  last  night!  He  took  it  last  night, 
and  I  thought  it  was  there  in  its  little  bed!  Oh, 
mamma!  what  can  I  do?"  And  she  wrung  her 
hands  and  looked  at  her  mother  appealingly. 

«My  darling,  don't  look  that  way;  dont  take 
on  so;  be  calm,  be  reasonable,^  pleaded  Louise. 
« It  is  not  so  serious.     It  is  not  a  living  thing. 

« It  is  a  living  thing  to  me,  mamma.  It  is  more 
than  a  Uving  thing.  1  can't  tell  you,  I  can't  ex- 
plain hoio  I  feel  about  it.  Oh,  mamma !  he  took 
it  only  last  night.  Perhaps  he  has  not  sold  it  yet ; 
perhaps  he  still  has  it.  I  must  go  to  him  and  beg 
him  to  give  it  back  to  me." 

«  My  dear  child,  it  will  be  useless.  Your  Cousm 
Franz  has  decided  to  sell  it,  and  he  is  not  one  to 
change  easily.    I  know  it  is  useless  to  go  to  him. 

"  It  is  not ;  I  will  go,"  she  cried,  angrily  stamp- 
ing her  little  foot.  "  It  is  mine;  he  has  no  right 
to  take  my  violin  and  sell  it.     I  wiU  go  to  him 

and  tell  him  so." 

"  Seraph,  you   forget  that   Cousm  Franz  has  a 


JNISTE. 

me  feel  that  it 
k  he  intended  to 

I  intended  to  take 

took  it  last  night, 
8  little  bed !     Oh, 
d  she  wrung  her 
appealingly. 
way;    don't  take 
''■    pleaded   Louise, 
a  living  thing." 
imma.     It  is  more 

II  you,  I  can't  ex- 
mamma  1  he  took 
as  not  sold  it  yet; 
go  to  him  and  beg 

jless.  Your  Cousin 
id  he  is  not  one  to 
jless  to  go  to  him." 
sried,  angrily  stamp- 
e;  he  has  no  right 
I  will  go  to  him 

Jousin  Franz  has  a 


THE    WOUNDED  BIRD. 


127 


right ;  he  is  your  guardian.  It  was  your  father  s 
wish  that  he  should  take  care  of  us.  We  have  no 
one  else  to  depend  upon.  I  implore  you  not  to 
rebel  against  Cousin  Franz's  authority." 

"  Mamma,  I  am  going  to  him,  and  if  he  has  the 
violin,  I  shall  make  him  give  it  to  me,"  repeated 
Seraph  firmly.     "  I  shall  not  come  away  without  it." 

"  Oh,  my  child,  I  beg  of  you,  do  nothing  rash," 
pleaded  Louise  weakly,  while  Seraph,  her  face  white 
and  resolute  and  her  eyes  aflame  with  a  sense  of 
wrong  and  injustice,  prepared  to  face  her  stern 
Cousin  Franz. 

"Mamma,  I  shall  tell  Cousin  Franz  the  truth. 
You  know  it  is  not  right  to  rob  me  that  way,  and  he 
knows  it.  He  should  have  told  me  that  he  intended 
to  sell  it.  Now,  mamma  dear,  don't  fret;  I  mmt  go. 
I  will  walk  as  quickly  as  I  can,  and  if  I  get  the 
violin,  I  shall  fly  back.  If  it  is  not  gone,  he  must 
let  me  have  it,  at  least  until  I  have  played  for 
Madame  St.  Maxent." 

It  was  quite  a  long  walk  from  St.  Louis  Street 
to  Grande  Route  St.  John,  where  Cousin  Franz 
lived,  but  Seraph  did  not  feel  the  distance.  So  fear- 
ful  was  she  of  being  too  late,  that  she  ran  breath- 
lessly the  greater  part  of  the  way,  and  when  she 


11'. • 


f 


r 


,  28  SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

reached  the  gate  and  rang,  she  could  hardly  wait 
for  the  servant  to  open  it. 

Madame  Arnet  was  sitting  on  the  gallery  busy 
with  her  needlework,  when  Seraph,  her  face  flushed 
and  her  eyes  eager  and  anxious,  rushed  hurriedly 
up  the  steps,  saying  as  she  came,  "  Bon  jour,  Con- 
sin  Rachel ;   please   can  I  see  Cousin  Franz,  now, 

directly  ? 

"Why,  Seraph,  what  is  the  matter?  What  has 
happened?"  asked  Madame  Arnet,  with  as  much 
animation  as  she  was  capable  of  showmg.  |'  Dear 
child,  you  are  so  excited.     Is  it  bad  news? 

"  I  want  to  see  Cousin  Franz  at  once,  msisted 
Seraph  curtly  and   decidedly.      "Can   I  go  to  his 

studv 

«  He  is  not  in  his  study ;  he  has  gone  out,"  replied 
Madame  Arnet,  with  irritating  calmness.  -Perhaps 
you  can  sit  down,  my  dear,  and  tell  me  what  has 

happened."  _  , 

"No,  no,  Cousin  Rachel,  I  can't  sit  down;  only 
tell  me,  did  he  take  my  violin  with  him;  has  he- 

has  he  sold  it?" 

«0h,  the  violin.  Mr.  Arnet  has  been  for  some 
time  bargaining  with  the  purchaser;  he  thought  it 
important   to  get  the    most  possible.     1  thmk  he 


jimrora 


UNI  ST E. 

could  hardly  wait 

the  gallery  busy 
h,  her  face  flushed 
,  rushed  hurriedly 
,  "  Bon  jour,  Cou- 
lousin  Franz,  now, 

latter?  What  has 
let,  with  as  much 
f  showing.     "Dear 

bad  news?" 

at  once,"  insisted 
"Can   I  go  to  his 

18  gone  out,"  replied 
almness.  "  Perhaps 
d  tell  me  what  has 

an't  sit  down;  only 
vith  him;  has  he  — 

has  been  for  some 
tiaser;  he  thought  it 
ossible.     1  think  he 


THE   IVOUNDED  BIRD. 

129 

took  it  to  the  man  last  night.  He  didn't  brine  it 
home  M-ith  him.  He  ha,  gone  now  to  take  your 
mamma  the  money -a  nice  ,„m,  which  I  hope  she 
will  use  prudently.  Mr.  Araet  is  denying  himself 
a  great  many  neces-sary  books  in  order  to  help  your 
mother.  I  trust  that  you  appreciate  his  kindness 
as  you  should." 

Seraph  did  not  hear  the  last  part  of  Madame 
Arnets  friendly  remarks.  With  a  heartbroken 
cry,  she  threw  herself  down  on  the  step,  and  buried 
her  face  ,n  her  hands,  while  her  little  shoulders 
Shook  with  sobs. 

"Why,  child,  what  are  you  crying  about?  I 
thought  you  would  be  thankful  for  the  money " 
And  Madame  Arnet  rose  calmly,  and  laying  down 
her  work,  went  slowly  toward  the  little  weeper,  with 
a  puzzled  look  on  her  stolid  face.  "Dear  me  I 
wish  Mr.  Arnet  was  here.  I  don't  know  what 'to 
do  with  such  an  excitable  child." 

Happily  for  her,  at  that  moment  Cousin  Franz 
arrived.  With  a  gentleness  and  tenderness  quite 
unexpected  in  one  so  apparently  severe  and  cold, 
he  lifted  Seraph's  tearful  face,  and  said  kindly, 
Come,  my  child,  .come  with  me  into  my  study  T 
want  to  Ulk  with  you  calmly  and  reasonably,  and 


Hi 


f 


,  30  SERAPH.  THE  LITTLE    llOUNISTE. 

I  think  lean  convince  you  tlmt  1  have  don.  what 
was  best.  I  have  just  left  your  moth.r;  nhe  « 
very  unhappy.     We  must   try    to    make   her    £eel 

better."  1  1   0    Ta   u 

.Oh,  Cousin  Franz,  is  it  too -too  late?    Is  it 

really  sold?"  cried  Seraph,  gn«ping  his  hand  des- 

'^'J'yII'  it  is  sold,  and  »e  cannot  get  it   back. 
Now,  Seraph,  sit  down  and   let    me    reason    with 

''""But,  dear  Cousin  Franz,  if  you  should  go  to 
the  man  who  bought  it.  and  tell  him  that  it  wa. 
all  a  little  girl  had,  that-that  it  was  her  dead 
papa's.  Oh,  if  you  will  tell  him  how  unhappy  I 
L,  I  think -I  am  sure -he  will  g.ve  it  back. 

"Impossible,  my  dear;  it  is  a  business  transaction 
„t  importance.  It  is  a  very  old  and  very  rare 
violin.  A  dealer  has  been  for  some  time  trying  to 
buy  it  for  a  customer,  and  I  have  spent  much  t.nie 
and  made  great  efforts  to  get  the  price  I  asked^ 
At  last  I  have  closed  the  bargam,  delivered  the 
violin,  and  received  the  money.    It  is  too  lat^  now. 

"But  why  did  you  take  it  without  my  knowmg 
it?    Why  didn't  you  let  me  say  good  by  to  it  / 
"Seraph,  I  thought  it  best.    I  wished  to  spare 


rsTE. 

avc  dono  what 
lotlicr;  she  is 
make   her    feel 

)o  late?     Is   it 
his  hand  des- 

»t  get   it    back, 
le    reason    with 

Li   should   go  to 
lim  that  it  was 
b  was  her  dead 
how   unhappy  I 
11  give  it  back." 
liness  transaction 
and   very    rare 
le  time  trying  to 
spent  much  time 
e   price   I  asked, 
dn,  delivered  the 
,  is  too  late  now." 
lout  my  knowing 
rood  by  to  it?" 
I  wished  to  spare 


Tf/E    WOUNDED  BIRD. 


'31 


you  sorrow,  or,  to  he  exact,  I  wished  to  spare  my- 
self  sorrow.     I  a„,  not  hard-hearted,  my  detir  child ; 
I  am  not  making  you  suffer  willingly.     I  know  you 
loved  your  father's  violin ;   I,  too,  love   everything 
that  belonged  to  him ;  for  that  reason  I  am  trying 
to  help  you  to  make  your   life   happy  and   useful. 
There  are  times  in  our  lives  when  we  niust  suffer, 
and   not  always   for   ourselves  alone,   but  for    the 
welfare  of  others.     You  are  so  young  that  perhaps 
you  cannot  understand  how  sweet  and  holy  it  may 
be  to  suffer  for  others.     You  love  your  poor  afflicted 
mother,  do  you  not,  Seraph?" 

"  Oh,  Cousin  Franz,  you  know  how  I  love  mamma. 
You  knox^r  she  replied  reproachfully,  as  if  a  doubt 
were  a  wrong  to  her. 

"Then,  my  dear,  are  you  not  willing  to  suffer  a 
little,  m  order  to  give  her  some  comfort,  to  ease  her 
poor  anxious  mind,  to  save  her  a  few  hours'    toil  ? 
to  provide  those   little   necessities  which  give   her 
strength   and    life?    By    depriving    yourself    of   a 
pleasure,  and   one   which  is  a   doubtful   good,  you 
are   adding  years,  perhaps,   to  your  mother's   life 
Thmk   It  over,  my  child ;   look   at   it   calmly   and 
dispassionately   from  my  point  of  view,  and   then 
tell  me  if  you  regret  the  sacrifice." 


bp*"" 


,32  SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLISISTE. 

Poor  little  Seraph !     She  wan  very  young  1«  have 
the  burden  of  such  a  decision  laid  upoii  her,  but 
she   grappled  with   it  heroically.     She  grasped  the 
beautiful    truth,   dimly   and  incompletely,  F^^^P^' 
but  it  comforted  her.     It  was  cruel, -it  was  heart- 
breaking  to  give  up  so  much  of  her  life,  but  for  her 
mother  she  felt  able  to  do  it.     And  Cousin   Franz 
comforted  himself  with  the  thought  that  he   had 
acted  wisely,  and  that  in  the  end  his  little  j>ro<ef/e 
would  recognize  the  fact. 

•  Stifling  her  sobs,  and  wiping  away  the  rebellious 
tears  which  she  could  not  repress.  Seraph  prepared 
herself  to  take  up  her  new  rOle  of  submission  and 
self-sacrifice.  In  the  first  flush  of  her  resolve  it 
was  not  so  difficult,  and  a^  Cousin  Franz  bade  her 
good  by  at  the  gate  she  looked  up  and  smiled 
hopefully.  "  Thank  you,  Cousin  Franz.  I  think  I 
understand,  and  I'll  try  to  bear  it  for  mamma's 

But  the  poor  little  feet  were  not  swift  as  she  re- 
turned home.  She  did  not /y.  She  began  to  be 
dimly  conscious  that  she  had  lost  her  wings;  that 
she  was  a  wounded  bird. 


ifiMiMnlWHl 


young  to  have 
upon  her,  but 
»he  grasped  the 
letely,  perhaps, 
—  it  was  heart- 
life,  but  for  her 
1  Cousin  Franz 
it  that  he  had 
lis  little  protegi 

ly  the  rebellious 
Seraph  prepared 
:  submission  and 
i  her  resolve  it 
>  Franz  bade  her 

up   and   smiled 
'ranz.    I  think  I 

it  for  mamma's 

t  swift  as  she  re- 
She  began  to  be 
her  wings;   that 


XVII.  V 

PEACH  BLOSSOMS. 

WHEN  Seraph  returned  home,  she  went  directly 
to  her  mother,  and  putting  l,er  arms  around 
the  poor   little   invalid,  said  sweetly,  and  with  no 
trace  of  her  former  passionate  emotion,  -  Mamma 
forgive  me  for  being  so  angry.     Cousin  Franz  has 
made   me   feel  how  wrong  I  was.     He   has   made 
me   understand  why  I  cannot  have  my  violin      I 
will  give  it  up  and  try  to  forget  it,  and  I  will  do 
everything  I  can  to  help  you,  and  make  you  happy. 
I  wil    practise  the  piano,  and  try  to  make  it  take 
the  place  of  my  violin." 

"Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling!"  was  all  Louise 
could  say,  as  she  kissed  the  pale  little  face,  grown 
so  suddenly  mature  and  thoughtful. 

"  Now,  chlre  petite  maman,  you  feel  better,  don't 
you  ?  You  will  see  what  a  good  child  I  can  be 
when  1  try.  I  must  go  to  Uncle  'Nidas  and  tell 
him  that  I  can't  play  for  Madame  St.  Maxent  to- 
morrow." 

»33 


i'.\ 


,34  s/:h-Am  ri/a  UTTLE  VIOUNISTE. 

The  effort  of  8elf-control  in  the  soft  little  voice 
made  LouiseH  heart  ache,  and  had  hIic  been  able, 
she  would  have  gladly  wipe,!  out  the  preceding 
twenty-four  hours,  and  made  her  child  happy  aguui. 
But  it  was  too  late ;  nhe  had  been  taught  her  first 
bitter  lesson  of  submission  and  reuunciation,  and 
nothing  could  obliterate  the  iuipression  it  had  made 
on  her  plastic  mind. 

Neither  was  Uncle  'Nidas  very  happy  these  days. 
He  missed  Marc  sorely.     The  boy  had  really  grown 
into  his  heart,  even  in  so  short  a  time ;  but  it  was 
not  only  in  his  affections  that  he  was  wounded :  his 
amour  provre  had  suffered  a  severe  shock,  he  was 
disappointed  in  himself.     He  felt,  for  some  reason, 
that  he  had  not  managed  well,  and  there  was  some 
remorse  mingled  with  his  regret.     He  had  not  had 
the  courage  of   his  convictions,  he  had  taken  the 
boy  on  his  own  responsibility,  on  his  own  estimate 
and  at  the  first  little  circumstance  he  had  doubted 
his  own  ability  to  judge  the  boy's  character.    For 
in  his  heart  he  was  uncertain  and  fluctuating.     At 
times  he   thought  him   innocent,   at   times   guilty. 
Marc  had  felt  it,  and  with  the  just  pride  of  inno- 
cence, as  well  as  the  fear  of  being  wrongfully  pun- 
ished, had  taken  himself  away  beyond  the   reach 


fSTE. 

oft  little  voice 
hUc  been  able, 
tho  preceding 
1(1  happy  again, 
taught  her  first 
uimciatiuii,  and 
on  it  had  made 

ippy  these  days, 
lad  really  grown 
ime;  but  it  was 
as  wounded :  his 
e  shock,  he  was 
for  some  reason, 

there  was  some 
He  had  not  had 
3  had  taken  the 
lis  own  estimate, 
I  he  had  doubted 
s  character.  For 
I  fluctuating.     At 

at  times  guilty, 
ist  pride  of  inno- 
l  wrongfully  pun- 
beyond  the  reach 


PEA  a/  n/.ossoAfs. 


135 


of  reparation,  and  he,  his  would-bo  benefactor,  had 
lost  all  ehance  of  doing  the  eliild  justice. 

This  worried  the  kind-hearted,  sensitive  old  gen- 
tieman  not  a  little,  and  cause<l  him  to  be  very  ten- 
der itnd  sympathetic  to  .Seraph  in  her  new  sorrow. 
After  he  had  listened  to  the  child's  pathetic  story, 
told  with  great  self-restraint  and  calnmess,  he  re- 
mained in  deep  thought  for  a  while,  as  he  did  not 
wish  to  make  a  mistake  by  blaming  iMadame  Blu- 
menlhal  or  Cousin  Franz.  Neither  did  he  wish  to 
undervalue  the  child's  loss.  At  length  he  said,  with 
an  effojt  to  be  cheery : 

''M  bien,  (hire  petite,  we  must  admit  that  your 
mamma  and  your  cousin  are  the  best  judges.     They 
love  you,  and  they  can  only  be  right.     It's  hard  for 
you  to  give  up  the  violin,  and  I'm  sorry  Madame  St. 
Maxent  can't  hear  you  play.     I'll  let  her  know  that 
you  can't  play  for   her  to-morrow.     It's  only  put- 
ting it  off;   for  if  you  set  your  mind  at   it,  you'll 
make  a  great  artiste  on  the  piano.     As  a  professor 
of  the  piano,  perhaps  you  can  become  more  famous 
than  you  could  as  a  virtuoso  on  the  violin.     Now, 
chine,  set  to   work  with  a  good   heart,  and  you'll 
see,  you'll  see." 

"I'll  try,   Uncle    'Nidas,"    returned   Seraph    re- 


11-: 


.-  ,«t*ie-«I'3  ■;:,*»- 


136 


SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


signedly;  "but  my  fingers  feel  heavy,  aiid  I  am 
lonesome  without  my  violin.  And  I'm  sorry  Marc 
has  gone;  I  miss  him.  I've  nothing  — no  one  to 
amuse  me.  Couldn't  you  lend  me  Toto?  I  must 
have     something    to    pet,    and    Toto    is    such    a 

dear." 

"Why,  certainly,  ma  'petite,  take  Toto;  and  don't 
you  want  some  interesting  books?  I  haVe  some 
just  suitable  for  a  little  girl,  — nice,  pleasant  stories. 
And  this  evening  — let  me  see,  we  can't  have  our 
concert  because  I  haven't  a  piano,  but  we'll  have 
2.  fete  chamjjetre.  The  garden  is  very  pretty  now. 
We'll  have  some  ices  and  cakes  under  the  multiflora, 
and  you  can  entertain  our  little  neighbors.  I'm 
sure  they  know   some  pretty  games,  so  you  T^on't 

be  dull." 

"Thank  you.  Uncle  'Nidas,"  Seraph  replied,  but 
there  was  no  heartiness  in  her  voice.  She  held 
Toto  hugged  up  to  her  cheek,  and  Monsieur  Nardi 
thought  he  saw  tears  glistening  on  the  little  animal's 

soft  fur. 

From  that  day  Seraph  set  about  obeying  her 
mother  in  everything.  She  practised  the  pianp  even 
more  hours  than  were  required  of  her,  and*  when 
she  was  not  studying,  she  tried  to  teach  her  little 


r.».'ms^lS!?'i■i!,s■■ 


OLINISTE. 

heavy,  aiid  I  am 

Qd  I'm  sorry  Marc 

)thing  —  no  one  to 

me  Toto?    I  must 

Toto    is    such    a 

ke  Toto ;  and  don't 
»ks?  I  haVe  some 
ice,  pleasant  stories, 
we  can't  have  our 
mo,  but  we'll  have 
is  very  pretty  now. 
nder  the  multiflora, 
,tle  neighbors.  I'm 
ames,  so  you  TV^on't 

Seraph  replied,  but 
ir  voice.  She  held 
and  Monsieur  Nardi 
)n  the  little  animal's 

about  obeying  her 
itised  the  pianp  even 
d  of  her,  and'  when 
d  to  teach  her  little 


PEACH  BLOSSOMS. 


^37 


fingers  to  cut  and  twist  the  petals  of  flowers,  to 
wind  the  stems,  and  arrange  the  bunches  artisti- 
cally. « I  will  learn  to  make  flowers,  mamma,  and 
then  I  can  help  you  earn  money,"  she  said,  with 
womanly  gravity.  "  I  have  plenty  of  time  when  I 
am  not  practising." 

"My  darling,    I    would    rather    have    you    play 
with  Toto,  and  amuse  yourself,"  and  Louise  looked 
anxiously  at  the  child.     "You  must  go  in  the  gar- 
den and  help  Romeo  with  the  flowers.     They  need 
care,  and  that  peach  tree  at  the  end  of  the  gallery 
has  not  blossomed  yet.     I  wonder  why  it  is  so  late. 
I've  been  watching  for  blossoms  on  it.     When  the 
peach  trees  bloom,  I  know  spring  has  come,  and  I 
ieel  more  cheerful;  but  this  year  everything  seems 
late, -even  the  birds  don't  sing  as  they  used  to, 
and  you    Seraph  dear,  you  are  losing  your  spirits. 
That  won't  do ;   you  must  cneer  up  and  be  my  sun- 
shine again." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  please  don't  complain  of  me.  I'm 
trying  so  hard  to  be  good,  to  please  you  and  Cousin 
Franz.  Why,  mamma.  Cousin  Rachel  told  you 
yesterday,  when  she  was  here,  that  I  had  improved 
«o  much  that  I  was  almost  as  sedate  and  though1> 
ful  as  Madge,  and  she  promised  me  a  new  frock 


H!:.'i 


ill 


»i««mw»te.M,»«n,...,.;„..p....,^|.„,,,ll,^.yi^^,^^.^^^^^^^^^^     ^^^ 


■K 


n 


1 


>-*ST:M!Kr. 


:f  ;e 


138 


SEXAP//,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


as  a  reward.      So,  i^efiVe   maman,  you    must    not 
blame  me  if  I  don't  sing  and  laugh  aB  much  as  I 

used  to  do." 

After  that,  for  several  days,  Seraph  spent  all  ot  lier 
spare  time  in  the  little  garden.  She  seemed  to  be 
very  busy  over  some  new  project,  and  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  mysterious  whispering  with  Romeo 
when  he  came  in  to  sweep  and  dust. 

One  morning,  just  as  the  dawn  flushed  pink  in 
the  east,  and  the  objects  in  the  little  garden  came 
out  clearly  one  by   one.   Seraph   stole  out  of  her 
room   on  to  the   gallery,  holding    a    small  basket 
full  of  peach  blossoms.     Slipping  softly  down  the 
steps,  s)ie  tapped  at  Romeo's  door.     A  low  implor- 
ing  muttering  within  told  that  the  old  man  was 
at  his  morning's  devotions.     He  was  "  'ras'lin'  with 
the  sperit,"  as  he  termed  it.     The  child  listened  a 
moment  to  his  gloomy,  self-accusing  words ;  he  was 
evidently  in  the  throes  of  penitence,  and  his  highly 
colored  expressions  made   her  tremble   and   shrink 
away :  Romeo's  religion  was  not  a  cheerful  emotion. 
With  a  saddened  heart  she  turned  from  the  door 
and  sat  down  on  the  steps,  holding  her  blossoms, 
but  not  looking  at  them.    She  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing of  something  else. 


.  if;  .■.•;Sff*!C^!T 


L. 


^- 'assaatgEjti 


WISTE. 

you    must    not 
;h  a&  much  as  I 

h  spent  all  of  her 
>he  seemed  to  be 
and  there  was  a 
ing  with  Romeo 
list. 

I  flushed  pink  in 
ttle  garden  came 
stole  out  of  her 
a    small  basket 
softly  down  the 
r.     A  low  implor- 
;he  old  man  was 
jvas  "  'ras'lin'  with 
le  child  listened  a 
ig  words ;  he  was 
ice,  and  his  highly 
erable   and   shrink 
I  cheerful  emotion, 
led  from  the  door 
ling  her  blossoms, 
eemed  to  be  think- 


PEACH  BLOSSOMS. 


139 


Presently  Romeo  hobbled  out,  his  woe-begone 
old  face  drawn  and  haggard  in  the  morniuK 
light. 

"Bress  yer  heart,  honey,  is  yer  up  a'ready  an' 
waitin'  fer  dat  ole  step-ladder?" 

"  Yes,  Romeo ;  I'm  waiting,  and  hurry,  please'  I 
want  the  tree  to  be  in  bloom  when  mamma  gets 
up ;  then  she  Avill  be  happy  all  day." 

Romeo  hobbled  away,  and  bringing  the  step-ladder, 
placed  it  beside  the  tree.  Then  Seraph  climbed  to 
the  very  top  of  it,  and,  with  dextrous,  nimble 
lingers,  began  tying  to  the  brown  branches  the 
pretty  pale  blossoms,  which  she  had  made  very 
naturii:  f  ora  scraps  of  muslin  left  from  her 
mothe.  .,      jrk. 

When  the  sun  peeped  into  the  garden,  the  little 
peach  tree  seemed  to  blush  under  its  affluence  of 
bloom.  And  Monsieur  Nardi,  looking  out  of  his 
window,  thought  to  himself  how  suddenly  and 
beautifully  the  tree   had  put  forth. 

An  hour  later  when  Madame  Blumenthal  lifted 
her  tired,  dull  eyes  to  the  window,  she  exclaimed 
joyously,  "  Look,  Seraph,  the  peach  tree  is  in  bloom. 
How  suddenly  spring  has  come !  "  And  a  mocking- 
bird, no  wiser  than  the  invalid,  dropped  down  on 


Pi 


py\ 


'^^'^-»-vBm3ms,mmii^^am:i4isi^mmiimmt^ii^&imm-iitmi&-.-- 


...;-,  W^-'»X*»" 


n 


,40  SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE  VIOLINISTE. 

a  flowering  branch  and  poured  out  a  thrilling  song, 
a  Bong  of  life  and  joy,  and  poor  little  Louise  felt  a 
sudden  upspringing  of  hope  and  happiness. 

But  Seraph  slipped  away  to  her  own  little  room, 
and  sat  there,  thinking  deeply,  with  the  marmoset 
hugged  to  her  heart. 


i?5K:r:^S3S'B!E»iaWSF;.^*S*"*'* ''■'"'■' '" 


(,W^-'»X*J6»f  ■' 


■titHPi, 


MINISTE. 

it  a  thrilling  song, 
little  Louise  felt  a 

happiness, 
ir  own  little  room, 
yith  the  marmoset 


XVIII. 

seraph's  secret. 

QERAPH  and  Madge  had  seen  so  little  of  each 
^  other  that  they  were  scarcely  acquainted,  for 
Madame  Arnet  had  not  encouraged  any  intimacy 
between  the  frivolous  little  violin  player  and  her 
sedate  and  obedient  daughter. 

But  now  that  Seraph  had  reformed,  as  it  were, 
under  Cousin  Franz's  excellent  advice,  and  had 
become  studious  and  submissive,  the  minister's  wife 
no  longer  objected  to  their  meeting  each  other  at 
proper  intervals.  Occasionally  Seraph  was  invited 
to  tea,  or  Madge  was  allowed  to  spend  a  few  hours 
in  the  little  cottage  on  St.  Louis  Street. 

During  these  short  and  infrequent  meetings  the 
children  had,  like  the  busy  bee,  « improved  each 
shining  hour,"  and  made  rapid  strides  toward  a 
close  friendship.  Seraph  had  no  intimates  of  her 
own  age,  and  it  was  delightful  to  find  in  the  quiet, 
gentle  little  Madge  so  sympathetic  a  recipient  of 
her  small  confidences. 

141 


ilij« 


142 


SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


One  day  they  were  nestled  together  in  an  arbor, 
in  the  garden  on  the  Grande  Route  St.  John,  chair 
tering  as  fast  as  their  active  little  tongues  could  fly. 
Madge  was  unusually  animated,  and  Seraph  extremely 

emphatic. 

"  If  you're  sure,  Madge,"  Seraph  wafi  saying,  "  that 
you  can  keep  a  secret,  I  will  tell  you;  for  I  must 
tell  some  one,  and  I  don't  dare  tell  mamma  or  Uncle 
'Nidas,  and  sometimes  I  feel  so  guilty,  so  wicked, 
keeping  this  to  myself,  and  letting  another  be 
blamed.  I'd  like  to  tell  you,  Madge.  I'd  like  to 
ask  you  what  I  ought  to  do,  if  you're  sure  you'll 

never  tell." 

"  I'm  not  a  tell-tale.  Seraph.     You  can  trust  me," 

returned  Madge  firmly. 

"On  your  honor?" 

"  Yes,  on  my  honor,"  and  she  crossed  her  plump 
little    fingers,    binding    herself    solemnly    by    that 

mystic  sign. 

Then  Seraph  pressed  her  soft  cheek  so  close  to 
Madge's  fawn-colored  head,  and  whispered  so  low, 
that  a  saucy  blue-jay  hidden  among  the  vines  could 
not  distinguish  a  word  of  Seraph's  confession; 
neither  a  word  of  Madge's  comments. 

There  were  only  little  half-audible  exclamations 


sus-AAmMsikaiMAi-^A-^'^^A'-  ■ 


UN  1ST E. 

jther  in  an  arbor, 
ite  St.  John,  chatr 
tongues  could  fly. 
d  Seraph  extremely 

I  vvafi  saying, "  that 
1  you;  for  I  must 
1  mamma  or  Uncle 

guilty,  so  wicked, 
2tting  another  be 
[adge.     I'd  like  to 

you're  sure  you'll 

You  can  trust  me," 


!  crossed  her  plump 
solemnly    by    that 

t  cheek  so  close  to 

.  whispered  so  low, 

Dng  the  vines  could 

eraph's    confession ; 

ments. 

udible  exclamations 


SERAPH'S  SECRET. 


M3 


from  Seraph  of  "  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?  How  can 
I  ?  Oh,  Madge,  I  can't ;  I  must  wait ;  I  can't,  I 
can't,"  and  then  some  imperative,  urgent  sentences 
from  Madge.  « You  must,  Seraph,  it's  right ;  you 
must  do  it.  I  couldn't  rest  if  I  were  you.  I  couldn't 
•sleep  at  night  with  tlmt  on  my  conscience.  You 
must.  Seraph;  you  must." 

''  If  you  think  I  ought,  I'll  try,"  said  Seraph,  in 
a  faltering,  irresolute  voice. 

"  Yes,  try.  It  won't  be  so  hard  when  you  make 
up  your  mind.  Oh  dear!  I  wonder  why  it  is  so 
easy  to  do  wrong,  and  so  hard  to  do  right,"  said 
Madge  reflectively.  "Seraph,  you  wouldn't  think 
that  I  had  a  secret,  would  you  ? " 
"No,    I    wouldn't;    have  you?"    asked    Seraph 

alertly,   her    eyes    sparkling  with  sudden   interest  . 

''Oh,  Madge!  do  tell  me!    I  hope  it's  not  such  a 

dreadful  one  as  mine." 
"Well,  I  don't  think  I'm  doing  right,"  returned 

Madge  honestly.     "  I  am  afraid  I  am  deceiving  papa 

and  mamma,  although  they  never  exactly  told  me 

that  I  shouldn't  do  it." 
"Oh,   Madge!    do  tell    me  what  it  is!"    cried 

Seraph  anxiously.     "  I'U  cross  my  fingers  if  you  want 

me  to." 


144 


SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


\% 


\ 


"  I  think  you  may  as  well,"  said  Madge  cautiously, 
"then  I'll  know  I'm  safe.  You  see  papa  intends 
me  to  be  a  professor  of  German  when  I  grow  up. 
He  thinks  I  like  German,  but  I  don't ;  I  hate  it." 
And  Madge  let  her  voice  fall  and  looked  around 
nervously  at  a  slight  noise. 

It  was  only  the   curious  blue-jay  trying  to  hear 
what  she  was  saying.     "  And  I  don't  mean  to  teach 
it,"    she    added  with   calm   deliberation.     "I  have 
decided  to  be  a  milliner.     The  only  thing  I  lorn  to 
do  is  to  make  dolls'  hats.     I  make  them  for  all  the 
girls  in  school,  and  mamma  doesn't  know  it.     I  have 
no  dolls,  because  papa  and  mamma  think  it  a  foolish 
waste  of  time,  but  I'll  tell  you  how  I  manage  to 
make  the  hats.     I  ask  to  come  out  here  to  study 
my  German.     I  study  awhile,  else,  you  see,  I  should 
be  telling  a  falsehood,"  exclaimed  Madge,  with  care- 
ful diplomacy,  "  and  after  I  have  finished  my  lessons 
I  make  my  dolls'  hats.     I  will  show  you,"  and  ris- 
ing from  her  seat,  she  parted   the   shrubbery  and 
drew  forth  a  small  covered  basket.     "  All  my  things 
are  in  this.     I   hide  it  here   so   that  no  one   can 

find  it." 

Then  she  laid  out  before  Seraph's  admiring  eyes 
a  number  of  tiny  hats  made  with  considerable  skill, 


VM)UiMi.a..l..j!5aiJt«AW'itii'''!--W.W^4:-i;j!:gg~«fafa>~i^''^ 


lUNISTE. 

I  Madge  cautiously, 
,  see  papa  intends 
I  when  I  grow  up. 
don't;  I  hate  it." 
ind  looked   around 

■jay  trying  to  hear 
lon't  mean  to  teach 
beration.  "I  have 
»nly  thing  I  /o«e  to 
ke  them  for  all  the 
ti't  know  it.  I  have 
la  think  it  a  foolish 
I  how  I  manage  to 

1  out  here  to  study 
se,  you  see,  I  should 
id  Madge,  with  care- 

2  finished  my  lessons 
show  you,"  and  ris- 

the  shrubbery  and 
Let.  '*  All  my  things 
40   that   no  one   can 

raph's  admiring  eyes 
th  considerable  skill, 


SEKAPII'S  SECRET. 


»«§ 


and  as   modish   as  though   they  had  com-  from  a 
milliner's  show  window. 

"They're  lovely!"  said  Seraph,  looking  at  each 
one  approvingly.  "Where  do  you  get  the  ribbon 
and  flowers?" 

"  The  girls  give  them  to  me  to  pay  for  the  hats 
I  make  for  them,  and  sometimes  I  sell  one,  and,  on 
my  way  to  school,  T  buy  things  myself.  Now  you 
know  my  secret.  I  intend  to  keep  on  making  dolls' 
hats  until  I  am  out  of  school  and  am  old  enough  to 
make  big  ones.  By  and  by  I  mean  to  have  a  shop 
on  Royal  Street,  with  a  large  wandovy  full  of  hats, 
feathers,  and  flowers,"  and  Madge's  light  eyes 
sparkled  mildly  at  its  imagined  beauty. 

"Oh,  Madge,  I  am  so  glad   that  you  intend  to 
do  that,"  cried  Seraph  joyfully.     "We  can  have  a 
shop  together,  and   I  can  make  the  flowers.      I'm 
learning  now  from  mamma.     If  I  can't  play  the 
violin,  I  mean  to  make  flowers ;  for  I  know  I  shall 
never  love  the  piano,  and  you  must  love  your  instru- 
ment to  learn  to  play  it  well.     I  mean  to  try  it  with 
all  my  heart.     I  promised  joe^ife  maman  that  I  would 
try ;  but,  Madge,  by  and  by  they  will  see  that  I  can't 
and   then   they  will  leave  off  making  me  practice. 
I'm   wearing  my  finger  tips  off  and  straining  my 


(I 

It 


miimm^ 


\^ 


if 

,  n 
i.  i!i 

]  I; 


■  ill* 


,46  Sf-:A'.-IP//,   THE  LITTLE    VWUNISTE. 

handH   for  nothing,  an.l  CoiiHm   Fran^  ami   all   of 
them  will  find  it  out  by  ami  by."  ^  ^ 

-Poor  Seraph!"  said  Madge  pityingly;  "I  know 
how  you  feel.  1  feel  junt  the  name  about  German, 
only  /  don't  Hhow  it.  I've  made  up  my  mmd  to 
be  a  milliner,  but  until  the  time  comes  no  one  but 

you  will  know  it."  ,    ,,      . 

"  Yes,  well  keep  it  a  secret,"  agreed  Seraph,  and 
I'll  learn  all  1  can  from  mamma,  and  sometime  we  1 
have  a  big  shop  like  Madame  Croi/.et's,  and  you  an.l 
I  will  sit  behind  the  glass  partition,  -  you  makmg 
hats,  and  I  making  flowers,  and  cAtr.  v^t\ie,mman 
iust  looking  on  and  doing  nothing;  and,  Madge,  I 
will  buy  another  violin,  and  in  the  evenmg  I  will 
play  for  you  and  mamma." 

At  that  moment   approaching  steps  warned  the 
little   conspirators.     Madge  hastened  to  conceal  her 
basket,  and  Seraph's  small  face  put  on  an  expres- 
sion of  patient   submission   which   seemed   to    say, 
MVe  bide   our  time.     We  are  two   little   clipped, 
caged  birds;   we  mean  to  be  good  and  docile  now 
but  our  plans  for  the  future  are  secretly  made,  and 
we  bide  our  time  to  break  loose  from  our  prisons 
and  spread  cur  wings  in  freedom." 

That  same  evening  Monsieur  Nardi  sat  alone  m 


NISTE. 

'luu  an('    all   of 

ingly;  "I  know 

!  about  German, 

up  my  mind  to 

juies  no  one  but 

Bed  Seraph,  "  and 
id  sometime  we'll 
et'w,  and  you  and 
)ii,  —  you  making 
here  petite  mnman 
g ;  and,  Madge,  I 
le  evening  I  will 

steps  warned  the 
led  to  conceal  her 
)ut  on  an  expres- 
1  seemed  to  say, 
two  little  clipped, 
(d  and  docile  now, 
secretly  made,  and 
from  our  prisons 

[1. 

Nardi  sat  alone  in 


SEKAP//'S  SECKET. 


'47 


ills  room  behind  the  shop,  absorbed  in  reading  a  let- 
ter. It  was  from  the  steward  of  the  ship  with 
whom  Marc  had  saiUnl  as  cabin  boy,  and  was  in 
iinswer  to  one  the  old  bookseller  had  <lospatched  to 
meet  the  steamer  on  her  arrival  jn  Liverpool. 

The  steward's  letter  was  another  disapj)ointment 
to  Monsieur  Nardi.     He  had  asked  the  kind-hearted 
sailor  to  bring  the  boy  back  on  the  return  voyage, 
and  to  treat  him  with  as  nmch  consideration  as  he 
possibly  could.     But  to  his  sorrow,  he  learned  from 
the  letter  before  him  that  the  steamer  was  ordered 
to  some  other  destination,  and  might  not  return  to 
New   Orleans   for   years.     Besides,  Marc,  who   had 
made  a  very  satisfactory  cabin    boy,  had   left   the 
ship  immediately  on  her  arrival,  and  they  had  lost 
all  trace  of  him.     But  the  steward  assured  Monsieur 
Nardi  that  they  would  do  what  they  could  to  find 
the  boy,  and  to  induce  him  to  return  on  the  first 
steamer  that  sailed  for  his  port. 

There  the  matter  ended,  and  Monsieur  Nardi  was 
feeling  anything  but  satisfied  with  the  termination 
of  the  affair,  when  Seraph  entered  hurriedly  and 
excitedly. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  'Nidas,  I've  something  to  tell  you," 
she  began  breathlessly,  as  if  she  had  rehearsed  a 


M 


,.  T*"'  ,'flSSW'  * 


m 


SERAm  THE  LITTLE   VIOLINISTB. 


ilil 


&M\ 


8tory  and  did  not  winh  to  be  interrupted  nntd  she 
finiHhod  it.     -  I've  wanted  to  tell  you  for  a  long 
time;  but  I  couldn't -1  didnt  have  the  courage 
To-day  Madge  made  me  feel  that  I  ought  to  tell 
you,  and  I  nm.t  now,  while  1  can.     I  know  why 
Marc  went  away.     He  went   because   you  thought 
that  he  luul  takeii  some  money ;  but,  Uncle   Nidas, 
he  did  not  take  it.     He  did  not  touch  it. 

u  Mais,  comment,  nia  petite  f  How  do  you  know 
that  Marc  did  not  take  it?"  a«ked  Monsieur  Nardi, 
puzzled,  but  deeply  interested.  '^      , 

.  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  1  know.  Oh,  please, 
don't  ask  me !  "  she  cried,  suddenly  burstmg  into 
tears,  and  slipping  to  her  knees,  she  covered  her 
flushed  face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed.  1  am 
so  sorry,  so   unhappy,  but   I   can't   tell  you  any 

'"  For   a  moment    Monsieur   Nardi   looked   at  the 
little  figure,  kneeling  as  though   in   self-abasement 
and  his  eyes  were  full  of  bewildered  surprise  and 
dismay     Like  a  flash  he  remembered  that  Seraph 
had  entered  the   room  that  morning  and  taken  a 
piece  of  music  she  had  left  the  evening  before,  from 
that  very  table.     How  horrible!     What  had  taken 
possession  of  him?    Was  he  losing  his  mind ?    Was 


^figftfi^w.mm ''  t»k 


.'...T''  .".llf-'J'U  s 


^iC^ 


'NISTB. 

rrupted  until  she 
you  for  a  long 
iivo  the  courage. 
I  ought  to  tell 
,11.    I  know  why 
use   you  thought 
)ut,  Uncle  'Nidas, 
touch  it." 
[ow  do  you  know 
I  Monsieur  Nardi, 

now.  Oh,  please, 
enly  bursting  into 
,  she  covered  her 
gobbed.  "1  am 
m't   tell  you  any 

rdi  looked  at  the 
in  self-abasement, 
dered  surprise  and 
ibered  that  Seraph 
»rning  and  taken  a 
ivening  before,  from 
What  had  taken 
ng  his  mind?    Waa 


SKKM/W/'S  SECNET. 


'49 


he  becoming  siLspicious  of  every  one  ?  It  was  „dio„s 
For  a  mom.nt  h.  hated  himself.  Then  the  tenderest 
•'ompuHsion  for  the  cowering,  weeping  child  filled  his 
troubled  old  heart.  What  did  it  matter?  Let  her 
IH'  ever  so  guilty,  he  loved  her  the  .same.  Stooping 
over  her  he  lifted  her,  and  drew  her  iiot,  tear-stained 
cheek  close  to  his  heart. 

"There,  there,  ma  chh'er  he  said  soothingly 
while  his  own  eyes  filled.  "Not  another  word  • 
not  another  tear.  I  decided  long  ago  that  Marc 
was  mnocent.  I  know  all  about  it;  never  speak 
of  It  again ;  never  think  of  it.  It's  all  over,  and 
we  11  forget  it  ever  happened." 

Seraph  looked  at  him  searchingly  as  she  v/iped 
away  her  tears  and  swallowed  her  sobs.  Then  she 
said,  in  a  tone  of  great  relief,  "  I'm  so  glad  you 
know.  I  didn't  think  you  knew ;  and  you'll  for- 
give,  — I  mean  you  won't  punish  any  onev  Qh 
dear  Uncle  'Nidas,  can't  you  find  Marc  to  tell  him' 
that  you  knoio  he  is  innocent?" 

"  Vm  trying  to  find  him,  chhne;  Fm  trying,  petite. 
I  have  thought  of  a  plan,  and  if  that  don't  succeed, 
1  shall  be  obliged  to  go  after  him  myself" 


\ 
u 


m 


f.^, ■^■Iglll^^^^^™*"    i-*^^^*^' 


.      XIX.  .     • 

seraph's  professor. 

ONE  morning  Cousin  Franz  came  to  tell  Madame 
Blumenthal  that  he   had  engaged  for  Seraph 
a  professor  who  had  just  arrived  from  Berlin.   His 
name  was  Vortman,  and  he  was  an  old   friend  of 
Cousin  Franz;   he   had   also   known  Carl   Blumen- 
thal when  they  were  boys  together  in  the  conser- 
vatoire.    It  was  a  rare  chance  to  find   so  capable 
an  instructor  for  such  a  modest  price.     As  he  was 
a   stranger  and  wished  to  be  introduced,  he  had 
made  special  terms  to  teach  both  Madge  and  Seraph, 
in  the  hope   of  obtaining  other  pupils  through  the 
influence  of  his  former  friend. 

«  Now  Seraph  has  no  excuse  for  not  progressmg  ^ 
rapidly,"  said  Cousin  Franz,  when  the  little  prelim- 
inaries were  arranged ;  "  a  professor  of  such  abdity 
will  give  a  new  impetus  to  her  efforts  and  en- 
courage her  to  strive  after  real  excellence.  I  have 
great  hopes  of  her  now,  since  she  takes  so  much 

interest  in  her  music." 

150 


WIMl^'iiW 


SOB. 

ame  to  tell  Madame 
engaged  for  Seraph 
id  from  Berlin.   His 
IS  an  old   friend  of 
nown  Carl   Blumen- 
;ether  in  the  conser- 
i  to  find   so  capable 
it  price.     As  he  was 
introduced,  he  had 
h  Madge  and  Seraph, 
r  pupils  through  the 

;  for  not  progressing 
hen  the  little  prelim- 
fessor  of  such  ability 
her  efforts  and  en- 
il  excellence.  I  have 
!e  she  takes  so  much 


SERAP/rs  PJiOFESSOR.  ,-j 

"  But  does  she  take  interest  ?  "  asked  Louise  doubt- 
fully,  "or  18  she  merely  trying  to  be  obedient?  At 
tmies  she  seems  singularly  apathetic  and  indifferent  • 
she  IS  never  demonstrative  and  light-hearted,  as  she 
used  to  be.  I  sometimes  fear  that  we  are  training 
and  pruning  the  slender  sapling  too  severely." 

"Not  at  all,  Louise;  a  little  discipline  has  improved 
her  wonderfully.     By  and   by  she   will   strike  out 
new  shoots,  and  you  will  be  surprised  at  her  vigor- 
ous  moral  .and   mental   growth.     Look  at  Madge  • 
see  how  carefully  I  am  training  her;   she   has  no 
desires,  no  will  but  mine,  and  she  has  a  fine,  healthy 
mmd  -no  sickly  fancies,  no  whims.     She  is  contented 
to  walk   in   the  path  I  have   marked  out  for  her 
r  mean  to  make  her  a  distinguished  German  scholar- 
she  has  the  faculty  for  mastering  difficulties,  and  the 
patience  and  perseverance  necessary  for  success     If 
you   will   leave   Seraph   tq   me,   now    that    I   have 
^  gained  an  influence  over''her,  I  will   make   her  as 
reasonable  and  industrious  as  Madge  is." 

"Ah,   Cousin   Franz,   you   know   so   much    more 
than  I  do!     You  are  full  of  strength  and  courage 
you  have  energy  and  ambition,  and  I  am  glad  that 
my  child  has  such  a  friend  and  guardian.     But  let 
me  beg  of  you   not  to  be  too  severe,  not  to  expect 


rm 


,  i[*'*flHMW5P'^'^Wfc:?I  ^ItSSn't^-. : 


1^2 


SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


too  much  of  Seraph.  She  is  delicate  and  sensitive, 
and  lately  she  has  not  seemed  strong.  Her  little 
pale  face  and  sad  resigned  eyes  torture  me,  and 
sometimes  I  long  to  have  her  her  old,  restless,  noisy, 
impulsive  self  again.  If  we  should  ruin  her  health, 
and  make  her  miserable  —  ah,  I  shudder  to  think 

of  it." 

"Then  don't  think  of  it.  Those  are  nervous 
fancies.  She  will  develop  into  a  fine,  strong  woman, 
and  under  Vortman's  instruction  will  make  a 
pianiste  to  be  proud  of." 

Any  change  in  the  dull,  gray  level  of  Seraph's  daily 
life  was  most  welcome.     Gradually,  in  her  strained, 
overwrought    condition,   everything    was    becoming 
colorless,  cold,  and  uninteresting  to  her.     She  strug- 
gled through  her  allotted  tasks  in  a  dull,  lifeless 
way.    She  mastered  the  technicalities  of  her  les- 
sons, she  practised  carefully  and  correctly,  she  went 
through  her  exercises  like  a  clever  little  machine, 
with  no  more  human  feeling  in  her  touch  than  one 
could  detect  in  a  music-box. 

Before  Professor  Vortman  had  given  her  a  half- 
dozen  lessons,  he  was  impressed  with  the  child's 
technical  skill.  Her  time,  her  fingering,  her  phras- 
ing, were  remarkably  correct,  but  the  lack  of  expres- 


om 


■x^^i(«m-tmNim^4mi^^ 


-':i.«^'/-i£  -i'.-.jntkj:^.-: 


NISTE. 

be  and  sensitive, 
ong.  Her  little 
torture  me,  and 
d,  restless,  noisy, 
ruin  her  health, 
jhudder  to  think 

LOse  are  nervous 
le,  strong  woman, 
n     will  make    a 

I  of  Seraph's  daily 
,  in  her  strained, 
or  was  becoming 
)  her.  She  strug- 
in  a  dull,  lifeless 
ilities  of  her  les- 
orrectly,  she  went 
er  little  machine, 
er  touch  than  one 

given  her  a  half- 
,  with  the  child's 
agering,  her  phras- 
the  lack  of  expres- 


SERAPWS  PROFESSOR. 

'53 
sion  and  warmth  exasperated  him.     Ha  was  a  clever 
kmd-hearted  man,  as  well  as  an  artist,  a.d  he  began 
^  study  h.  Httle  pupil  closely,  until  it  grew  upon 
lim   that  she  was  like  some  small  creature  out  of 
Its  element  struggling  to  adapt    itself  to  new  cci- 
ditions.     It  was  like  trying  to  teach  a  fish  to  fly 
or  a  bird  to  swim.     Nature  was  against  him,  and 
he  could   not  conquer   its   immutable  laws.      The 
child  s  soul  was  not  in  her  work,  she  was  not  an 
mtelhgence;  she  was  a  mere  machine  grinding  out 
her  pitiful  pathetic  task. 

^  "Is  it  possible,"    thought  Professor  Vortman  to 
himself,  ^-that  honest,  intelligent  human  beings  such 
as  Franz  Amet  and  that  gentle  little   invalid  can 
have    no    more  perception,   or   have   they    wooden 
hearts,  not  to  be  able  to  feel  that  they  are  inflicting 
torture   on  that  poor,  impressionable  child  '>     Well 
I  will  tell    them    the    truth.      I   will   not   be  an 
accomplice." 

During  a  lesson,  preparatory  to  an  interview  with 
Cousm  Franz,  Professor  Vortman  asked  Seraph  some 
sunple,  practical  questions. 

"Do  you  love  music,  mademoiselle?" 

"Yes,  monsieur,  I  We  music;  but  I  dislike  the 
piano. 


154 


SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE   VWUNISTE. 


Why,  then,  if  you  dislike  the   piano,  do  you 

study  it?"  .  , 

because   Cousin   Franz   and  mamma  wish  me 

**«Why  do  you  dislike  the  piano,  my  childj" 
-I  don't  know,  monsieur;  1  can't  explam." 
*^  Ah,  mademoiselle,  that  is  not  reasonable.    Give 

me  a  reason,  please."  ,         +i  o+ 

"Well,  monsieur,  I  love  the  violm;  perhaps  tliat 

is  why  I  dislike  the  piano." 

«I  understand.  The  violin  is  your  instrument. 
Do  you  not  know  that  it  is  wasting  time  to  study  an 
instrument  you  dislike?" 

"Ye,,  monsieur,  /  know  it,  but  Cousin  Franz  and 

mamma  do  not. 

"Have  you  a  violin?"  ^ 

-No,  monsieur,  I  have  none;  I  had  papas,  but 
Cousin  Franz  thought  best  to  sell  it." 

"  And  you  practised  a  great  deal  on  it . 

"Oh,  yes;  every  day;  and  I  was  always  happy 
when  I  had  my  violin." 

u  Yes,  yes ;  I  understand,"  and  the  professoi  weno 

away,  thinking  deeply. 

The   next  day   Professor    Vortman    brought    his 
violin.     The  violin  was  his  favorite  instrument  also, 


A*JS^^':»fei^!«,'i,5t„-i. 


W/STE. 

i   piano,  do  you 

lamina  wish  me 

),  my  child?" 
n't  explain." 
reasonable.    Give 

)lin;  perhaps  that 

your   instrument, 
g  time  to  study  an 

Cousin  Franz  and 


I  had  papa's,  but 
11  it." 
leal  on  it?" 

was  always  happy 

i  the  professoi  wenc 

rtman    brought    his 
rite  instrument  also, 


SEHAPirs  PA'OFESSOH. 


»S5 


and  handing  Seraph  a  roll  of  music,  he  .said,  '^See 
It  here  is  something  you  can  play." 

She  selected  a  sonata,  and  went  througli  it  in  a 
manner  that  astonished  the  professor 

"Very  good!  excellent!  My  little  friend,  let  me 
congratulate  you.  I  have  found  your  soul -it  is 
m  the  violin." 

"Thank  you,  monsieur,"  said  Seraph,  tears  start- 
|ng  to  her  eyes,  and  her  face  warm  and  tremulous 
wth  emotion.  "I  know  it;  but  I  can't  convince 
tousm  Franz  and  mamma." 

"See  here,  my  good  friend,"  cried  Professor 
Vor  man,  entering  Cousin  Franz's  study  rather  ab- 
ruptly, "  I  thought  you  had  some  sensibility,  some 
conscience.  See  what  a  task  you  have  set  me  to 
do.  You  expect  me  to  teach  a  bird  to  burrow 
like  a  mole,  a  butterfly  to  creep  like  a  snail.  You 
expect    me    to    change    nature    itself,    and    I    de- 

cteV'"'''''^'"''""''"^^°'^"^^^-^'^ 
"Why    Vortman,  what  do  you   mean?"   asked 
Cousm   Franz,  turning   quickly   in    his    chair,    and 
looking  at  the  professor,  surprised  and  alarmed 

friend      T    ""'  ''''"'  ''^*^^'  "^^^^^   honest 
friend.     You  are  wise  in  your  own  conceit,  but  in 


nil 


_'l'  t*-"*S!9B'IS'2S.if*aft*ii  V 


i  'f ' 


Rill 


,56  :S£W«/,  TUB  LITTLE   VIOLWISTE. 

reality  you  are  a,  ignorant  and  blind  as  an  earth- 

worm.'  ^ »» 

..What  have  I  done?    Prove  what  you  assert, 
exclaimed  Cousin  Fran.,  with  a  troubled  expression. 
Ah,  you  may  a3  well  plead  guilty,"  and  Professor 
Vortmans  sarcastic  face  relaxed  in  a  gr.m  smde 
..You  have  tried  to  fetter  a  little  soul;   you  have 
tried  to   force  genius   to  express    itself    by    your 

.  „     v™,  have  tried  to  do  what 

methods,  in  your  way.    You  have  tnea 

the  Creator  alone  can  do.    The  wmd  "oweth j.here 
it  listeth,  and  the  Supreme  cannot  be  bound  by  any 
laws  or  devices  of  man.      Stop  persecuting   that 
adorable  little  ^0%^  of  yours.    Take  h«  awj 
from    the   piano.     She  will  "^y-  """«"; 
chord  of  true  music  from  that  instrument.    Allow 
her  to  express  herself  in  h-  own  way   and  you 
and  perhaps  the  world,  will  be_  ast«n«hed  at  her 
power,  her  passion,  her  genma." 


_.:  lM^*iifBffSAjfi 


WISTE. 

nd  as  an  earth- 
bat  you  assert," 
,ubled  expression. 
ly,"  and  Professor 
n   a  grim  smile. 

soul;    you  have 
itself    by    your 

tried  to  do  what 
nd  bloweth  where 

be  bound  by  any 

persecuting    that 

Take  her  away 

er  bring  out  one 

nstrument.     Allow 

vn  way,  and  you, 

astonished  at  her 


XX. 


A  DILEMMA. 


jyj^OST  unexpectedly  Cousin  Fran^  was  faced  by 
a  very  trying  dilemma.     Ho  hated  extremely 

tt>rh     .   ;  f  ""•""  '"  "'^  "™°«^    *°  '•Omit 
that  he  had  been  mistaken  in  his  pet  theories  of 

l^nng  and  training    the    young,  that    after    all 

h,s  secret  self-laudation  he  lacked  discernment  and 

mtelhgence;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he  had  too 

much  respect  for  Professor  Vortman's  honesty  and 

ability  to  d-scredit  his  decision,  besides,  he  did  not 

w.sh  to  bestow  a  charity  that  was  of  no  benefit 

to  the  recipient.      In  short,  he  did  not   wish   to 

Z'^L^C" ""'  ""■'''  *"  °'  ■'° '"'"-  «-d 

After  thinking  the  matter  over  seriously,  and 
"«k.ng  at  ,t  from  eveiy  ^int  of  ,fe„,  J;^  ^ 
long  interview  with  Louise  and  the  professor,  dur- 
>ng  which  he  tried  to  fortify  his  position  by  former 
arguments;  but  at  length,  fearing  that  Professor 
Vortman  would  resign  his  position  as  instructor. 

«57 


m . 


h' 


,58  S,^'"-''.   THE  LITTLE  yWUmsTE 

h,  yielded  with  a,  g<»d  a  grace  -  P-'j^-''  ^f^ 
decLd,  with  the  eo„.»t  of  her  -^^-  ^^  I 
SeranhV  musical  education  entirely  t«  the  d'*'^"'"' 
He  professor,  to  be  co„duct«i  by  lum  —  - 

l  suited  his  intelligeuce  and  his  pup.lsab.hty. 
^ta  she  ha,  no  violin;' said  Louise  reg.f  J. 

.1  am  so  «,rry  it  was  ..eccssary  '<> -"^-'^ 
"It  wm  necessary,"  retur..ed  Cousm  Frau^  dec 
M       'ird  a  very  wise  and  reasonable  proceed.,  g. 

a  child  to  pract.se  on.    A  cheaper  on 
"!!au,  but  I  have  not  the  means  U.   get  her  a 
""r;:: Vo-an's  interest  in  «s  pup^sn^tl.d 
.„.y  even  that  obstacle,    ^f  —  l^^aid 

the  special  conference,  she  new 
^rl:"^d::••T:criedioyfully.a«ainshe 
Oh,  uncie  u  Cousin  Franz  and 


.iv«a^*«»^w^«s#*»«^^*^«**«^ 


/  "■• 


TSLMroWllllKifak-, 


INISTE. 

as  possible,  and 
moUier,  to  leave 

to  the  discretion 
by  him  exactly  as 
pupil's  ability. 
Louise  regretfully. 

to  sell  Carl's." 
ousin  Franz  decid- 
onable  proceeding, 
an   instrument  for 
per  one  will  do  as 

jans  to   get  her   a 

\  his  pupil  smoothed 
idemoiselle  can  use 
aer  own,"  he  said. 
5  favorable  result  of 
to  Monsieur  Nardi 

1  joyfully;  again  she 

"Cousin  Franz  and 

sssor  Vortman,  and  I 

m. 

iteamk!    I  am  happy 


A  DILEMMA. 


»59 


tor  you.     You  have  been  so  good  and  patient.     Now 
see  the  reward." 

"  Mah,  Cher  oncle,"  and  the  happy  little  face 
clouded  for  a  moment,  "how  can  I  play  with- 
out papa's  violin?  Another  will  not  seem  the 
sune."  » 

"  Vrai,  vrai,  chSne  ;  but  you  must  try  to  get  used 
to  another.  There  are  some  fine  violins  for  sale 
here  in  the  shops,  although  they  are  not  genuine 
Guarnierii,  as  your  father's  was." 

"  Yes,  Uncle  'Nidas,  I  know  there  are  good  ones. 
There  is  one  I  like  in  a  little  shop  on  Rue  Royale. 
I  have  been  there  often  to  look  at  it,  and  Madame 
la  marchande  has  let  me  play  on  it,  and  she  says 
the  bow  is  a  vrai  Tourte  de  Pans.  You  know 
tliey  are  the  best.  One  must  have  a  good  bow  as 
well  as  a  good  violin;  but,  cher  oncle,  I  can't  have 
that  one.  Mamma  is  not  rich  enough  to  buy  it 
for  me.  I  can  only  use  Professor  Vortman's,  and 
I  can  never  love  a  borrowed  violin." 

"  Bah,  hah,  petite  !  why  not  ?  You  love  a  borrowed 
marmoset ;  iiest  ce  pas  f  " 

"  Ah,  but  Toto  isn't  the  same  as  a  violin.  I  love 
Toto  dearly,  I  like  to  borrow  him,  and  I  forget  that 
he  IS  not  mine;   but  a  violin,  ah!  that   is  not  a 


■.y 


,       You   see   IcouWnt   love   a  borrow..! 
marmoset.      loii   f^ii-    ^  « Tluit   is  tin' 

,voll   aH   I   love  my  own.     iHat   is  in' 
mamma  as*  well  as   i   luv        j 

wav  I  feel  about  a  violin.  ,. 

J^  ,      ^     J  .,«,! .  vpH  T  understand. 

"  Yps  ves,  1  understand  you,  yes,  i  uim 

Then  a  Ja    "  raaiance  -hone  over  Mo„,ieu.  N.r,., . 
pll:,  oM  face  and  he  laugUea  n.e.ny,  "0.,  o.. 

,.  that  vou  should  have  an  mstrument 
iTaasl  her  ir.he.m  receive  ™eth»eve„„>« 

^rrr^'rwm:\'-..e.uhe,^io.c 

,„„,  dear  UnCe  •Nidas,  although  she  never  . 
L;„nehuto„rco««n.h^a„....^-^^^^ 
obliged  to  remain  m  her  chair  all  day,  «« 


J 


■"■■n 


t   love   a  borrowed 
own.  *  That  is  the 

yes,  I  understand." 
ver  Monsieur  Nardi  s 
,  merrily,  "Out,  oul, 

id  me.  Uncle  'Nidas. 
that  1  am  foolish  to 
,  and  I  can't  help  it." 
link  1  could  convince 
1  have  an  instrument 
on  her.  Suppose  you 
ceive  me  this  evening 

r  she'll  be  glad  to  sec 
liough  she   never  sees 
•ause  she  is  lame  and 
ir  all  day ;  but  1  know 
md  ask  her." 
aft-footed  as  a  gazelle. 
I  full  of  joyous  life.     I" 
radiant  and  breathless*. 

,a  says  she  will  be  hapf\i 
it;  for  her  pale,  sick  face 


A  D/LEA/AiA, 


I6l 


w^ts  bright  all  over.     She  want.s  to  thank  you  for 
boing  so  good  to  us.     Professor  Vortman  will  leave 
Ins  violin,  and   I  will  play  you  a  new  fantaisic  he 
brought  me,  and -and   we  shall  bo   happy   again. 
Only  poor  Marc  will  not  be  here;  I  wish  he  would 
come  back  now  that  you   know -"and  her  voice 
m  to  a  whisper.     She  felt  that  there  was  a  grave 
secret  between  her  and  her  old  friend  which  must 
be  respected. 

"  Yes,  my  child,  I  wish  he  would  come  back  •  I 
«han  t  be  quite  at  ease  until  he  does.     I  am  trying 
to  mduce  the  men  on  the  English  ships  to  search 
for  hnn  when  they  return  to  Liverpool,  by  offering 
them  a  reward  to  bring  him  back.     Patsy  is  as  much 
interested  as  I  am,  and  he  is  doing  all  he  can      I 
think   we   shall   see  Marc   again.     I   think  he  will 
return,  when  he  knows  how  much  I  wish  it." 

"  Then  we  will  forget  how  unhappy  we  have  been 
since  he  went  away,  and  everything  will  be  just  as 
It  was,  won't  it?"  she  asked,  a  little  anxiously. 

^'Certamly,  chh-ic,  certainly;  all  will  be  the 
same." 

''Ala  honne  heme  !  Now  I  must  go  and  practise ; 
1  am  folk  with  joy.  No  more  piano,  no  more  jan- 
ghng  over  hard  keys.    Look  at  my  fingers,  cher  ancle; 


j^,j©(^»SliS<^'s*^''i»"*'=''-" 


rtin,V>iti'.-ri'riilf-n^,''te*l 


1 63 


SKh'Ar/f,    THE  LITTIE    llOUMSTH. 


they  are  alive  now,  all  alive.     You  shall  hear  what 
music  1  (Uin  make,     (iood  by  till  ev»!uiug." 

And  she  ran  off  with  sueh  a  merry  laugh  that  it, 
warmed  the  heart  of  the  old  bookseller,  who  stood 
looking  after  her  with  a  puzzled  expression.  "  Dear 
me;  how  annoying!"  he  thought.  "I  d<m't  want 
to  think  of  it,  and  yet  I  do.  I  wish  I  could  get  at 
the  bottom  of  that  wretched  little  affair.  There's 
something  1  haven't  found  out  yet.  1  am  convinced 
that  Marc  is  innocent;  but  u^ho  is  guilty?" 

Monsieur   Nardi's   visit    to   Madame    Blumenthal 
was  extremely  satisfactory.     The  invalid,  with  her 
soft,  curling  hair  prettily  arranged,  and  in  her  dainti- 
est white  rohe  de   chamhre,  looked   charmingly  ex- 
pectant, as  she  gave  her  hand  to  her  visitor's  kindly 
grasp.     For   a   moment   the   old  bookseller  seemed 
embarrassed   and    ill    at  ease.      Something   in   the 
faded,   childish   face    before    him   brought    back  a 
flood   of    memories,— memories  that   always   made 
him  oblivious  to  time  and  place,  —  and  he  found  it 
rather  difficult  to   recover   himself   and  confine  his 
wandering  thoughts  to  the  necessities  of  the  occasion. 
Gratitude  and  thanks  always  made  him  a  little 
awkward  and  confused;  and  poor  Louise,  her  heart 
full  to  overflowing,  was  profuse  in  her  expressions 


I.IMSTH. 

Ill  hIiuU  hear  what 
roiling." 

jrry  laugh  that  it 
ksoUor,  wlio  wlooti 
xprowsion.     *'  I)»'ar 
t.     '•  I  don't  want 
viwh  1  could  get  at 
,le  affair.     There's 
t.     1  am  convinced 
is  guilty  ?  " 
idaine    Blumenthal 
!  invalid,  with  her 
I,  and  in  her  damti- 
ed  charmingly  ex- 
her  visitor's  kindly 
bookseller  seemed 
Something   in   the 
n   brought    back  a 
that   always   made 
^__and  he  found  it 
elf   and  confine  his 
ities  of  the  occasion, 
made  him  a  little 
or  Louise,  her  heart 
3  in  her  expressions 


^  nil.  EM. MA. 


163 


<'l  mdobtodnoss.     During  thin  little  war  of  words  - 
protestations  .,„  her  part,  and  modest   denials 'on 
lHH,-his    inoniontHry    embarrassment    passed   un- 
noticed,  and  very  soon  he  regained  his  ..,.m,K,8„re, 
nnd  they  were  chatting  together  as  informally  and 
mtiniately  as  though  they  had  been  life-long  friends 
Seraph  slipped  out  of  the  room  to  play  over  her 
•.ew  fmtame  before  Monsieur  Nardi  heard  it ;   and 
wii.le   she   was  gone   there   was   a    conference   not 
intended  for  her  ears  between  the  visitor  and  her 
mother.     When   she   returned  with  her  violin,  the 
conversation  changed  abruptly  to  another  subject, 
and  something  like  this  was  said  by  Louise,  whose 
face  was  flushed  with  emotion: 

"  Have  you  noticed  the  peculiarity  of  that  peach 
tree  in  my  little  garden  ?  The  blossoms  have  faded 
and  withered,  but  they  have  not  fallen,  and  strange 
to  say,  although  it  bloomed  so  profusely,  a  leaf 
has  never  appeared." 

Monsieur  Nardi's  eyes  twinkled,  and  he  looked 
at  Seraph  as  he  said,  - 1  think  this  little  fairy  can 
explain  the  mystery  of  the  peach  tree ;  I  discovered 
it  some  time  ago." 

'*  Oh,  petite  maman,  didn't  you  know  that  they 
weren't  real  blossoms  ? "  cried  Seraph.     «  Didn't  you 


mmm--^- 


,64  SEJIAPII.  THE  LITTLE   VIOLINISTE. 

know  that  I  made  them  out  o£  y""'  ^'^l«  °| 
„„di„  and  silk,  and  tied  them  on?  thought 
you  found  it  out  long  ago,  and  only  wanted  ru  to 
think  you  didn't  know.  Dear  little  mamma,  see  how 
I  cheated  you  into  being  happy!" 

Louise  laughed  heartily,  and,  strokmg  the  pretl^ 
hair  fondly,  said.  "Ok,^  chire,  what  a  Uttle  trick- 

ster  vou  are!  ,    ,,      • 

Then  Seraph  played  exquisitely,  and  Monsieur 
Nardi  listened  like  one  in  a  happy  dream,  He  was 
dangerously  near  those  old  delightiul  days  and 
a^afn  he  felt  as  though  he  had  united  the  thr^ds 
of  his  life  just  where  they  were  rudely  broken 
nearly  forty  years  before. 


m 


OUNISTE. 

of    your    scraps  of 

m   on?    I  thought 

only  wanted  we  to 

,tle  mamma,  see  how 

stroking  the  pretty 
what  a  Uttle  trick- 

itely,  and  Monsieur 
,ppy  dream,  He  was 
delightful  days,  and 
d  united  the  threads 
were   rudely  broken 


XXI. 

seraph's  fete. 

■gACH   day   Professor   Vortman   was  more  and 
more  astonished   at  Seraph's  progress  on  the 
violin.     As  a  plant  which  shoots   more  vigorously 
after  its  growth  has  been  checked,  the  child's  talent 
seemed  to  spring  out  anew  with  fresh  living  power, 
-an  abandon,  a  fervor,  a  strength,  that  enchanted 
the  artistic  feeling  of  her  teacher.     He  did  not  now 
complain  of  apathy  and  dul.iess;  her  heart  and  soul 
were  in  her  work,  and   the.v   was  danger  of  her 
givmg  too  much  vitality  to  her  studies,  instead  of 
too   little. 

There  was  only  one  small  discord  that  marred 
the  harmony  of  her  otherwise  perfect  happiness, 
and  that  was  the  professor's  violin.  It  was  a  Ger- 
man instrument,  and  Seraph  did  not  find  it  as 
responsive  to  her  touch  as  the  deeper,  richer,  raoro 
resonant  Guarnieri  upon  which  she  had  always 
played.  Her  father's  violin  was  the  lost  chord  in 
the  melody  of  her  life.  Until  she  found  it  again, 
she  felt  that  she  could  never  quite  satisfy  herself 

165      _ 


BMBasi*******^ 


1 66  SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

The  violin  she  liked  best  after  her  father's  was 
the  old  one  in  the  little  shop   on  the  Rue  Royale. 
Often  she  went  there,  and   Madame  would  take  it 
out  of  its  case  and  hand  it  to  Seraph  as  tenderly 
as  though  it  were  an  infant.     The  mistress  of  the 
shop  had  become  deeply  interested  in  the  pretty, 
well-bred  child,  who  handled  the  instrument  so  care- 
fully, almost    reverently,  examining    it  with    the 
greatest  interest,  and  remarking  on  its  fine  points 
with  the  accuracy   and  intelligence  of    a  comoi^- 

S€XIV» 

Sometimes,  when  the  door  was  closed,  and  there 
was  no  one  in  the  shop  but  the  mistress,  Seraph 
would  take  the  fine  Tourte  bow  and  draw  such 
delicious  strains  from  the  old  violin  that  Madame 
would  forget  her  numerous  affairs  to  listen  spell- 
bound to  the  wonderful  little  musician: 

"Ah,  mademoiselle,"  she  would  say,  "I  wish 
you  could  liave  that  instrument.  It's  a  genuine 
Cremona;  I  don't  pretend  that  it's  an  Amati  or  a 
Stradivari,  or  any  of  those  great  names;  but  it's  a 

good  one."  ^     , 

"  Yes,"  Seraph  would  reply  a  little  sadly.  "  It  s 
a  good  one.  The  best  I  ever  played  on,  except 
one,  and  that  I  shall  never  play  on  agam.     My 


I 


ii 


IINISTE. 

her  father's  was 
tlie  Rue  Royale. 
me  would  take  it 
ieraph  as  tenderly 
le  mistress  of  the 
;ed  in  the  pretty, 
istrument  so  care- 
ling    it  with    the 
on  its  fine  points 
nee  of    a  connois- 

»  closed,  and  there 
e  mistress,  Seraph 
w  and  draw  such 
iolin  that  Madame 
tirs  to  listen  spell- 
lusician. 

)uld  say,  "I  wish 
it.  It's  a  genuine 
it's  an  Amati  or  a 
t  names;  but  it's  a 


,  little  sadly.  "  It's 
r  played  on,  except 
lay  on  again.     My 


I)J.II-III..J»1I""""" 


SEJiAPJ/'S  FETE.  i(^y 

professor's  violin  is  very  good,  but  it's  not  like 
this.  Yes,  I  wish  I  could  have  this,  but  it's  no  use 
to  wish.  I'm  sure  I  can't.  You  are  very  kind, 
madame,  to  let  me  play  on  it,  and  I  only  hope 
you  won't  sell  it,"  added  Seraph,  with  more  candor 
than  tact. 

Madame  smiled,  and  said  pleasantly,  "Ah,  you 
don't  mean  that,  mademoiselle.  I  am  very  anxious 
to  find  a  customer.  I've  had  this  a  long  time.  I 
paid  a  good  price  for  it,  so  you  see  my  money's 
lying  idle.  Rich,  fashionable  people  don't  come  to 
my  little  shop  when  they  want  an  instrument.  It's 
only  those  who  haven't  much  money,  and  they  want 
something  new  and  cheap.  I'd  like  to  sell  it,  but 
I'd  like  to  sell  it  to  you." 

After  a  while  Seraph  grew  so  fond  of  the  Cre- 
mona that  when  she  had  a  spare  half-hour  she 
ran  to  the  shop  on  the  Rue  Royale  for  the  pleasure 
of  playing  on  it.  One  day  when  she  entered,  Ma- 
dame met  her  at  the  door  with  an  expression  of 
mingled  satisfaction  and  regret.  ''Ah,  ma  pauvre 
petite  mademoiselle,  I've  unpleasant  news  for  you, 
although  I  am  very  much  pleased  for  myself.  At 
last  I  have  sold  the  Cremona  '  .        > 

"Oh,  madame!     Have  you?    Is  it  gone?"  and 


i68 


SKKAPH,   THE  LITTLE  VIOLINISTE. 


the  sharp  note  of  sorrow  in  Seraph's  voice  showed 
how  deeply  she  felt  its  loss. 

"  Yes,  ma  chire,  it  is  gone.  I  closed  the  bargain 
two  days  ago.  It  had  to  be  cleaned  and  put  in 
order  before  my  customer  took  it.  Oh,  it  was 
beautiful  in  a  brand-new  case.  I  got  a  good  price 
for  it,  so  I  threw  in  the  case.  A  fine  rosewood 
lined  with  blue  velvet.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  it.  The  dear  violin  looked  so  rich  in  such 
an  elegant  case." 

Seraph  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  her  little  fa«e 
full  of  keen  disappointment.  While  it  was  there, 
she  felt  somewhat  as  though  it  belonged  to  her, 
but  now  she  could  have  no  part  nor  lot  with  it  in 
its  prosperity  of  a  new  owner  and  a  velvet-lined 
case.  It  was  gone,  and  she  must  not  even  say 
that  she  was  sorry.  At  length  she  said,  a  little 
reluctantly,  however,  "  Well,  madame,  I'm  glad  you 
have  found  a  customer,  but  —  but  I'm  sorry  it's 

not  here.     I'm  sorry  I  can't  play  on  it  again." 
«  So  am  I,  cUre  petite.    I  never  heard  a  little  girl 

play  so  beautifully,  and  I  know  I  shall  never  hear 

another.     Unfortunately  I  was  obliged  to  let  it  go. 

I  needed  money,  voilh  tout;  but  I  shall  often  be 

longing  to  hear  you  again." 


lOLimSTE, 

raph's  voice  showed 

I  closed  the  bargain 
cleaned  and  put  in 
)k  it.  Oh,  it  was 
I  got  a  good  price 
J.  A  fine  rosewood 
ish  you  could  have 
:ed  so   rich  in  such 

>ment,  her  little  face 
While  it  was  there, 
it  belonged  to  her, 
rt  nor  lot  with  it  in 
r  and  a  velvet-lined 
must  not  even  say 
;th  she  said,  a  little 
adame,  I'm  glad  you 
—  but  I'm  sorry  it's 
play  on  it  again." 
ver  heard  a  little  girl 
w  I  shall  never  hear 
obliged  to  let  it  go. 
but  I  shall  often  be 


SEJiAP/rs  FETE. 


169 


After  this  interchange  of  gentle  amenities  Seraph 
went  away  dejectedly,  and  tried  to  forget  her  new 
loss  by  vigorously  attacking  the  professor's  rather 
strident  instrument,  from  which  she  drew  such 
wildly  rebellious  strains,  that  poor  little  Louise 
was  obliged  to  cover  her  ears  in  order  to  shut  out 
the  discordant  notes,  which  always  tortured  her 
weak  nerves. 

U  was  Seraph's  birthday.     She  was  twelve  years 
old,  and  Monsieur  Nardi  had  prepared  a  little  fgte  for 
her.   It  was  to  be  held  in  his  garden,  and  it  was  to  be 
what  he  laughingly  called  a  musical  fUe  champ^tre. 
A  dozen  or  so  of  his  small  neighbors  were  there,  and  ' 
as  it  was  given  in  Seraph's  honor,  Madame  Arnet 
had  allowed  Madge  to  join  the  little  party.     Under 
a  large  fig  tree  was  arranged  a  platform,  and  before 
it  were  placed  a  number  of  chairs  for  the  small  audi- 
ence.   Romeo  had  not  forgotten  any  of  the  details 
of  the  former  open-air  concerts,  so  he  had  provided 
a  basket  of  flowers  to  shower  upon  the  little  vio- 
liniste.     And   Cressy  had   arranged  a  table  in   the 
multiflora  arbor,  on  which  were  fruits,  cakes,  and 
bon-bons  of  every  variety,  as   well  as  the  pretty 
gifts  of  each  little  visitor. 
Seraph  was  unusually  happy,  for  it  was  the  first 


,70  SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTR. 

time  that   her   mother   had  consented  to  leave  the 
retirement  of   her  room.     Monsieur  Nardi  had  re- 
quested it  as  a  particular  favor;  and  there  she  sat 
in  her  wheel-chair  in  the  midst  of  the  merry  group, 
looking  very  pretty  and  delicate,  in  a  dainty  white 
gown,  with  a  tiny  flower-bonnet  resting  on  her  cuny 
hair      Her  stained  fingers  were  covered  with  pearl- 
gray  gloves,  and  she  shaded  her  tired  eyes  with  a 
rose-colored  parasol,  a  remnant  of  her  happy  girlhood. 
Seraph  had  seen  her  mother  dressed  in  that  way 
before  her  father  had  been  taken  from  them.    The 
invalid  often  went  out  then  in  her  wheel-chair  m 
spite  of  her  lameness,  and  she  remembered  how  proud 
and  happy  she  had  been  walking  beside  her  pretty, 
dainty,  little  mother,  while  her  father  pushed  the 
chair  always   talking  and  laughing  in  his  merry, 
light-hearted  fashion. 

At  last,  when  the  preparations  were  complete, 
and  Seraph  was  ready  to  play.  Cousin  Franz  and 
Professor  Vortman  came  through  the  shop  into  the 
garden  quite  as  if  by  accident,  and  then  the  satis- 
faction of  the  little  violiniste  was  perfect.  She  had 
secretly  wished  that  Cousin  Franz  and  her  teacher 
could  hear  her  at  her  best,  and  she  felt  in  the  mood 
to  surprise  them. 


OLimSTE. 

jented  to  leave  the 
ieur  Nardi  had  re- 
;  and  there  she  sat 
)f  the  merry  group, 
J,  in  a  dainty  white 
resting  on  her  curly 
covered  with  pearl- 
jr  tired  eyes  with  a 
Hier  happy  girlhood, 
dressed  in  that  way 
ni  from  them.    The 
I  her  wheel-chair  in 
membered  how  proud 
Qg  beside  her  pretty, 
jr  father  pushed  the 
ghing  in  his  merry, 

tions  were  complete, 
y,  Cousin  Franz  and 
ugh  the  shop  into  the 
b,  and  then  the  satis- 
svas  perfect.  She  had 
•"ranz  and  her  teacher 
she  felt  in  the  mood 


AiSA'.-//'//'.v  /-Ate. 


171 


Wlx^n  the  curtain  which  Monsieur  Nardi  had 
so  cleverly  arranged  with  Romeo's  assistance  was 
drawn  aside,  the  child  made  a  charming  picture. 
She  stood  in  a  Ixjwor  of  green  leaves  and  I)Iossoms, 
while  the  dark  foliage  of  the  fig-tree  made  an  effec- 
tive background  for  her  lovely  face,  beaming  eyes, 
and  shining  golden  hair.  On  tins  occasion  she 
wore,  instead  of  her  masquerade  costume,  a  simple 
white  frock,  confined  at  the  waist  by  a  soft  silk 
sash. 

Her  surroundings  were  so  harmonious,  so  perfect, 
that  there  was  scarcely  room  for  one  desire.  Yet 
there  was  one,  and  it  was  the  wish  foi  'ler  father's 
violin.  But  she  was  so  excited,  so  elated,  that  she 
did  not  allow  that  one  regret  to  disconcert  her.  Slie 
played  her  best,  her  very  best,  and  perhaps  it  is 
not  too  much  praise  to  say  that  Professor  Vortman's 
violin  never  emitted  more  delicious  strains. 

When  she  had  finished  her  first  sonata  there  was 
a  burst  of  applause,  amid  which  could  be  distinctly 
heard  the  rattling  of  Romeo's  bony  fingers.  Then 
such  a  shower  of  blossoms!  They  fell  around  her 
thicker  than  leaves  in  Vallombrosa.  And  as  she 
stooped  to  gather  them,  she  saw  Madge  before  her 
holding  up  a  mound  of  flowers,  out  of  all  proportion 


f 


172 


SF.KAPH,   THE  I.ITTI.F    VIOUNISTE. 


to  the  small  hands  that  grasped  it.  But  there  was 
sometliing  under  the  flowers,  — a  case,  a  violhi  case. 
Among  the  flowers  lay  a  o!t  >•  on  which  was  wiitten 
"ji  la  eharmante  petite  oiuUniste,  aeec  le  devouement 
de  rOncle  'Nidasr  ' 

With  treujbling  lingers  Seraph  opened  the  case, 
and  there,  on  its  blue  velvet  lining,  lay  the  Cremona 
violin  from  the  shop  on  the  Rue  Royale. 


vioumsrs. 

d  it.  But  there  was 
a  case,  u  violin  caHe. 
m  which  was  wi  itten 
\e,  acec  It  devoiiemtnt 

iph  opened  the  case, 
ling,  lay  the  Cremona 
lae  Royale. 


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XXII. 


A   DOUBLE   SUCCESS. 

Q<  0  astonished  and   delighted  was   Seraph  by  the 
^  present  of  the  much-desired  violin  that  she  did 
not  notice  a  sudden  and  important  addition  to  her 
audience,  —  a  handsome,  richly  gowned  woman  and 
a  fine-looking  boy  of  about  sixteen.     They  were  dis- 
tinguished guests,  but  their  manner  was  very  simple 
and  unaffected.     They  shook   hands   cordially  with 
Monsieur  Nardi,  who  presented    them   to   Madame 
Bhnnenthal,  Cousin  Franz,  and  Professor  Vortman. 
The  new  arrivals  were  Madame  St.  Maxent  and 
her  son  Maurice,  and  they  had  not   dropped  in  by 
accident.    Monsieur    Nardi   had   planned   the  little 
fete  expressly   to  give  his  friends  an  opportunity 
of  hearing  Seraph  at  her  best,  and  the  success  he 
desired  was  doubtless  secured,  for  they  had  entered 
at  a  moment  when  the  child  looked  simply  angelic, 
as  she  stood  in  her  pretty  bower,  holding  the  violin 
m  her  arms,  her  face  a  study  of  varying  emotions. 
Grratitude,  joy,  and  triumph  beamed  from  her  eyes, 
while  her  lips  curved  in  a  smile  of  rapture. 

«73 


'/li 


IS 

m 


3a9WQ»%?W«MijB>t^^ 


t7* 


SERAPH,  THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


Madame  St.  Maxent  and  Maurice  declared  that 
they  had  never  seen  a  prettier  littlr  tableau. 

"But  please  wait,  madame,  until  you  hear  her 
play,"  said  Monsieur  Nardi,  his  homely  old  face 
beaming  with  satisfaction.  "  It  is  true  that  she  is 
a  lovely  child,  but  her  playing !  Ah,  it  is  heavenly ! " 

While  Monsieur  Nardi  was  talking  with  his 
guests,  Professor  Vortman  was  assisting  Seraph  to 
tune  the  Cremona.  '•  What  shall  I  play  ?  "  she  whis- 
pered, for  she  had  discovered  the  new  arrivals,  and 
for  a  moment  was  a  little  embarrassed. 

"Repeat  the  same  sonata,"  he  replied.  ''Play  it 
as   well   as  you   played   it  before,  and    I  shall  be 

satisfied." 

«'  But  I   must  thank  dear  Uncle  'Nidas  for  the 

Cremona." 

"  Thank  him  by  your  playing.  Do  your  best  for 
his  friends;  that  will  show  your  gratitude,  rm  ch^re; 
that  will  please  him  more  than  words." 

When  the  Cremona  was  perfectly  accorded,  and 
the  music  arranged.  Professor  Vortman  went  back 
to  his  seat,  and  Seraph  made  her  graceful  bow 
to  her  audience,  and  began  her  score  with  the  com- 
posure of   one  who   had   passed   her  life  in  public. 

So  absorbed  was  she  with  the  new  instrument,  with 


■♦*«r*iM«j.' 


'lOUNISTE. 

lurice   declared   that 

little  tableau, 
until  you   hear  her 
lis  homely   old  face 
t  is  true  that  she  is 

Ah,  it  is  heavenly!" 
s    talking    with    his 

assisting  Seraph  to 
,11  I  play?"  she  whis- 
he  new  arrivals,  and 
barrassed. 

he  replied.  '•  Play  it 
[ore,  and   I  shall  be 

Uncle  'Nidas  for  the 

ig.  Do  your  best  for 
ir  gratitude,  rrm  cK^re; 
m  words." 

erfectly  accorded,  and 
:  Vortman  went  back 
de  her  graceful  bow 
sr  score  with  the  coin- 
ed her  life  in  public. 
e  new  instrument,  with 


^   DOUBLE  SUCCESS. 


175 


the  incomparable  strains  evoked  by  the  Tourte  bow, 
and  the  rich  resonant  tones  of  the  Cremona,  that 
she  was  for  the  time  oblivious  to  her  surroundings; 
and  as  she  bent  her  inspired  little  face  over  the 
instrument,  she  seemed  to  impart  some  of  her  own 
fresh  young  life  to  the  inanimate  wood.  She  and 
the  violin  seemed  to  breathe  and  throb  together 
with  the  vigor  and  passion,  as  well  as  the  delicacy 
and  tenderness,  of  one  of  Bach's  most  beautiful 
sonatas. 

It  was  really  a  remarkable  performance  for  a 
child ;  and  when  the  last  lingering,  liquid  strain  died 
into  silence,  there  was  a  storm  of  heartfelt  applause 
and  another  shower  of  blossoms,  and  Seraph  stepped 
from  her  small  bower  unutterably  happy  and  radi- 
antly triumphant. 

In  a  moment  she  was  surrounded  by  her  audi- 
ence. Madame  St.  Maxent  drew  her  to  her  and 
kissed  her  warmly,  and  Maurice  congratulated  her 
in  a  simple,  boyish  fashion.  Every  note  had  gone 
straight  to  his  heart,  but  he  could  not  express  what 
he  felt.  He  loved  the  violin  as  well  as  Seraph  did, 
but,  as  his  mother  had  remarked  to  Monsieur  Nardi, 
he  lacked  the  touch,  the  divine  touch,  which  he 
recognized  in  the  child's  playing. 


^r 


lyt  SERAPH,    THH  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

Even  Cousin  Franz  was  obliged  to  acknowledge 
that  Seraph  had  a  special  gift,  and  to  admit  to  the 
professor  that  he  had  done  well  with  his  little  pupil 

As  soon  as  Seraph  could  leave  the  distinguished 
visitors,  she  flew  to  her  mother,  and  embracmg  her 
warmly,  whispered,  "OA,  chlre  maman,  how  can  1 
thank  Uncle  'Nidas?  My  heart  is  so  full  that  I  am 
afraid  1  shall  cry  if  I  try  to  tell  him  how  happy 

"^Don't  try  to  tell  him  now,  chlrie.    Wait  until 

you   are   calmer ;   he  knows  how  grateful  you  are. 

,.  Look  at  his  face,  my  child;  he  is  as  happy  as  you 

^' Louise  was  right.  He  was  perfectly  satisfied  with 
the  result  of  his  little  entertainment,  for  he  had 
not  only  interested  Madame  St.  Maxent  in  his  pro- 
t^gk,  but  he  had  enlisted  her  sympathy  for  the 
invalid  mother  as  well.  , 

The  kindhearted  eligante  had  drawn  a  chair 
close  to  Louise,  and  after  heartily  congratulatmg 
her  on  the  success  of  the  little  violiniste,  with  a 
gentle  and  friendly  interest  led  the  invalid  to 
speak  of  herself.  , 

"  Is  it   possible  that  you  are  unable  to  walk . 

she  asked. 


!,i.^ 


OLINISTE. 

ed  to  acknowledge 
nd  to  rodmit  to  the 
vith  his  little  pupil. 
e  the  distinguished 

and  embracing  her 
maman,  how  can  I 

is  so  full  that  I  am 
ell  him  how  happy 

chlrie.    Wait  until 

w  grateful  you  are. 

is  as  happy  as  you 

srfectly  satisfied  with 
ainment,  for  he  had 
,  Maxent  in  his  pro- 
r   sympathy  for   the 

had   drawn   a   chair 

;artily  congratulating 

tie  violiniste,  with  a 

led    the    invalid    to 

re  unable  to  walk?" 


A  DOUBLE  Si'CCKSS. 


177 


"  I  have  not  walked  for  nearly  twelve  years,"  re- 
plied Louise  piteously. 

"  How  unfortunate !   Then  you  go  out  very  little  ? " 

"Almost  never.  To-day  I  have  made  an  eifort 
for  my  child.  It  is  so  near,  and  Monsieur  Nardi 
is  such  a  good  friend,  I  could  not  refuse  him ;  but 
I  am  accustomed  to  my  imprisonment,"  added  Louise 
resignedly;   "I  seldom  wish  to  go  out." 

''  You  must  let  me  make  you  wish  to  go.  You 
must  allow  me  to  come  and  take  you  and  that 
lovely  child  to  drive." 

"  Oh,  how  kind  !  "  umrmured  Louise.  "  Thank 
you ;  you  are  too  good." 

"Yes,  to  myself,"  returned  Madame  St.  Maxent, 
laughing.  "  Ask  my  old  friend  ;  he  will  tell  you  that 
I  must  always  have  some  life  about  me.     As  I  have 

no  children,  —  for  Maurice  is  no  longer  a  child, 

I  take  my  dogs  to  drive,  and  you  must  admit  that 
you  and  your  charming  child  will  be  pleasanter 
companions  than  those  troublesome  little  animals." 
"It  is  very  considerate  of  you  to  put  it  in  that 
way,"  returned  Louise,  with  a  grateful  smile.  "  Seraph 
might  amuse  you,  but  I  am  very  dull ;  I  shrink  a 
little  from  seeing  people.  I  am  nervous  and  shy." 
"Oh,  we  will  go  where  it  is  very  quiet;  to  the 


mmm 


'iiiiimmmrJimmmmmmimmit^mmgsmimmmaK^^ 


,^s  sEi^Ari,.  rm-:  uttib  vioumsTE. 

t  ,\,f.  nark-.      Vou  must  give  roe 
lake,  to  some  of  the  parks. 

the  pleas«.-e  o(  trymg  to  -'^^  >™'  J^  „j  ,^,, 
brigUter.    Y«„  must  get  »eU  for  the  -k-,  o 

.Uver  child.    I  can  assure  y^^^^  ^  ^„ 

future  before   lier,  and   slie  w.H  need  J  ^ 

Z  safeiy  aroid  the  shoals  and  qu,cksa^d»  of  .f^ 

Lonise-s  eyes  filled  with  tears.     "Yes,  my 
child's  sake  I  ^\^2iTL  do  to  help  you. 

'"^'"•^r'inte'stld    n   your  fascinating   little 
I  am  greatly  .nte^jtd        y     ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^ 

daughter,  and  I  should  ^^^^^  j^^_^ 

•■^'^^ir:::^     My^:^en3oyP'..'n«^-- 
*^^her     He  "-  enthusiastic  about  her  as  I  aro^ 

T        "  k  Monsienr  Nardi  to  bring  her  to  me,  and 
I  must  ask  Monsieur  interesting 

that  excellent  professor  also.      A  ve  y 

man,  and  I  am  sure  a  supenor  mstructor. 

engage  him  for  M-rice"  ^^_  ^^ 

.         ^''•^°"  rX    U.^e*r»ot  only  launched 
the  ™;7;'    "'  Professor  Vortman    a 

Seraph,  hut  he  h^   g  ^^  ^^^^^^     ^^  ^ 

vigoroiu  posh  m  tto  d  ^^^  ^  ^^^. 

the  instructor  of  Maurice  ou 
niendation  that  would  open  to  him  the  doo 
the  rich  and  fashionable. 


'NISTE. 

I  must  give  me 
our  life  a  little 
the  sake  of  that 
e  has  a  brilliant 
eed  you  to  steer 
icksands  of  life." 
"Yes,  for  my 

^  do  to  help  you. 
fascinating  little 
lave  the  honor  of 
pu  will  allow  her 
jnjoy  playing  duets 
about  her  as  I  am. 
ring  her  to  me,  and 
A.  very  interesting 
instructor.     I  must 

leur  Nardi  had,  by 
not  only  launched 

rofessor  Vortinan  a 
of   success.     To  be 

^axent  was  a  recom- 

bo  him  the  doors  of 


A  nOVBlR  SUCCESS. 


179 


After  the  guests  of  honor  had  partaken  of  Cressy's 
little  feast,  served  by  the  dignified  and  delighted 
Romeo,  they  withdrew  as  quietly  as  they  had 
entered,  and  the  children  were  left  to  enjoy  them- 
.selves  in  their  own  way. 

Although  Monsieur  Nardi  had  anticipated  great 
good  from  bringing  Madame  St.  Maxent  and  Seraph 
together,  he  had  not  expected  his  endeavors  to  be 
(Towned  with  such  pleasant  and  important  results ; 
for  he  did  not  foresee  that  the  gay  woman  of  the 
world  would  interest  herself  in  the  poor  little  in- 
valid by  offering  to  try  to  make  her  life  brighter 
and  happier ;  therefore  his  little  fgte  was  a  double 
success,  especially  when  the  desired  patronage  and 
favor  extended  even  to  Professor  Vortman. 


r 


,        XXIII.  , 

A   NEW   LIFE. 

WHEN  Consin  Franz  returned  home  and  told 
Madame  Arnet  of  Seraph's  success,  the  good 
lady  was  quite  anhnated  over  the  reflected  honor^ 
"Really,  Mr.  Arnet, how  very  flattering  to  feeraph ; 
but  I'm  not  surprised  at  her    playing  well.     O 
course  -he  can  play  the  violin.    It  comes  natural 
to  her.    It  seems  to  me  that  she  doesn't  deserve 
any  special  praise  for  playing  the  violin.    She  was 
J„  with  a  gift  for  it,  but  1  am  surprised  that 
Madame  St.  Maxent  should  go  there  t«  hear  her, 
and  that  she  should  think  so  much  of  her  playmg. 
I  suppose  she  didn't  notice  Madge.    Now,  a«  1  look 
at  it,  Madge  should  be  commended  for  playmg  on 
the  piano  as  well  as  she  does  when  she  has  no 

natural  taste  for  it." 

"But  Madge  didn't  play  on  the  piano;  no  one 
played  the  piano,  Raohel.    I  am  speaking  of  Seraph  - 
nlaving  the  violin.    Her  playing  was  remarkable. 
'TZ,  Mr.  Amet,  yes,   I  miderstood  what  you 

i8o 


— Mf-Tsf;- 


A  NEW  LIFE. 


l8l 


ned  home  and  told 
I's  success,  the  good 
he  reflected  honor, 
flattering  to  Seraph ; 

phiying  well.     Of 
I.     It  comes  natural 

she  doesn't  deserve 
the  violin.  She  was 
[  am  surprised  that 
o  there  to  hear  her, 
much  of  her  playing, 
dge.  Now,  as  I  look 
ended  for  playing  on 
es  when  she  has  no 

n  the   piano;   no  one 
n  speaking  of  Seraph's 
ing  was  remarkable.' 
understood  what  you 


said;  but  if  Madge  had  played  I  mean— I  think 
Madame  St.  Maxent  would  have  been  pleased  with 
her  progress  —  considering  she  has  no  gift,"  re- 
tiu'ned  Madame  Arnet,  floundering  hopelessly  in 
her  effort  to  make  herself  understood. 

'•Nonsense,   Rachel,"    said    Cousin    Franz   impa- 
tiently.    "Madge   is   a  good   German   scholar,   but 
she   can't   play  the   piano.     This   affair   of  Seraph 
has  opened  my  eyes  to  some  rather  serious  truths 
in  regard  to  the  education  of  children.     I  see  now 
that   I   was   wrong   in   trying   to   force   Seraph   to 
study   the    piano.     She   would   have   met   with    no 
success  in  that  direction,  but  with  her  talent  for 
the   violin,   and   Madame   St.   Maxent's   patronage, 
she   will   make   a   reputation.     Professor   Vortman 
says  she  is  the  most  promising  pupil  that  he  ever 
had.     He  predicts  great  things  for  her.     He  wishes 
her  to  study  with  him  for  a  couple  of  years,  and 
then,    he    says,    she   must    go    to    the    Paris   Con- 
servatoire.    But  that,  I  fear,  will  be  impossible.     I 
am  very  anxious  about  Louise's  affairs.     When  the 
money  that  I  got  for  the  violin  is  gone,  she  will 
be  in  a  very  trying  position." 

"And    she    surely   can't   expect   you   to  support 
her,"   said   Madame   Arnet  sharply.     "She   knows 


l83 


si-KAi'i/,  riih.  iiTTi.t:  iioi.iNiarE. 


thut  your  salary  Ih  small,  that  our  church  is  poor, 
and  she  iuis  no  claims  on  me." 

«  No,  certainly,  Rachel,  she  has  no  claims  on  you ; 
but  she  has  on  her  husband's  cousin,  and  I  shall 
do  the  l)est  I  can,  trusting   in  a   kind    Father  to 

help  me."  - 

«  Oh !  1  would  not  worry  about  her,  Mr.  Arnet. 
It's  likely  Madame  St.  Maxent  will  do  something 
for  her,  if  she  is  interested  in  Seraph.  She'  ought 
to.  The  rich  ought  to  help  the  poor."  And  the 
minister's  wife,  after  this  wise  conclusion,  settled 
down  comfortably  to  her  needle-work. 

Madame  Arnet  was  not  wrong  in  her  prediction. 
Madame  St.  Maxent  did  help  Louise  in  many  ways. 
First,  and  most  hnportant,  she  encouraged  her   to 
hope,  for  with  hope  as  a   support   even   the   most 
feeble  and  helpless  can  struggle  against  cruel  diffi- 
culties.    The  poor  invalid  had  lived  only  from  day 
lo  day,  shuddering  when  she  thought  of  the  months 
and  years  before  her.     She  was  tired  of  life,  weary 
of  constant  and  ill-paid  labor,  and  disgusted  with  her 
cramped,  narrow  environment,  but  she  could  not  ask 
nor  hope  for  freedom  while  she  had  her  child.    She 
must  live  for  her,  she  nmst  bear  her  burden  as  she 
best  could,  in  patient  and  uncomplaining  endurance. 


'STE. 


A  NEW  LIFE. 


'«3 


hurch  i«  poor, 

•laims  on  you ; 
n,  and  I  shall 
ind    Father   to 

ker,  Mr.  Arnet. 
do  Houiething 
)U.  She  ought 
jor."  And  the 
riclusion,  settled 

•k. 

her  prediction. 

in  many  wayn. 
iouraged  her  to 

even  the  mo»t 
linst  cruel  diffi- 
l  only  from  day 
it  of  the  montliH 
;d  of  life,  wear} 
sgusted  with  her 
he  could  not  ask 
L  her  child.  She 
er  burden  as  she 
lining  endurance. 


When  Madame  St.  Maxont  first  visited  Loui«c, 
wfiiiK  Imt  at  her  dainty  and  difficult  labor,  and 
learning  how  little  she  received  for  it,  .slii!  decided 
lu  find  (iLstomers  for  the  invalid  who  would  pay 
her  in  proportion  to  the  perfection  of  her  work. 

••  My  little  friend,"  she  said,  "  we  will  change  all 
this.  Croizet  is  a  wretch,  and  I  will  never  buy 
another  flower  from  her.  You  shall  sell  your  flow- 
era  yourself.  You  shall  take  your  own  orders.  I 
will  sen«l  my  friends  to  you.  Finish  what  you  have 
on  hand  and  send  them  to  that  wicked  woman, 
with  every  scraj)  of  material  that  belongs  to 
her." 

"  But,  dear  madame,  if  I  offend  her,  she  will  never 
employ  me  again,"  said  Louise  tremulously. 

''N'importe;  you  won't  need  her  work;  very 
soon  you  will  build  up  a  patronage  for  yourself." 

"And  the  material?  I  have  not  the  means  to 
purchase  it." 

*'I  will  attend  to  that.  Give  me  a  list  of  all 
you  need,  and  I  can  give  you  an  order  at  once. 
Make  a  half-dozen  of  those  beautiful  flower-bonnets, 
such  as  you  wore  the  other  day  at  Monsieur  Nardi's 
little  fgte;  vary  the  flowers,  and  I  can  dispose  of 
them  all  among  my  friends  for  twenty  dollars  each. 


►■-umiBUMWiawatiTiiMmntioi.- 


1 84 


SERAPH,    THE  UTTLE    VIOUNISTE. 


They  are  very  fashionable,  and  Croizet  asks  from 
twenty-five  to  thirty  dollars  for  them." 

"And  she  pays  me  about  five  dollars  for  one," 

sighed  Louise. 

"Then  there  are  roses  for  the  carnival.  I  will 
take  it  upon  myself  to  order  them  from  you.  They 
will  not  be  needed  for  wme  time,  but  you  can 
begin  them,  and  work  on  them  at  your  leisure.  In 
the  meantime  I  will  send  a  young  friend,  who  is  to 
be  married  soon,  to  you  for  her  bridal  imrure,  and 
you  must  allow  me  to  fix  the  prices.  You  are  too 
modest,  you  underestimate  your  talent,  and  charge 
too  little.  You  must  be  paid  the  same  as  that 
dishonest  Croizet,  who  has  been  getting  rich  off  your 

work." 

Madame  St.  Maxent  was  as  good  as  her  word. 
Very  soon  customers  poured  in,  and  Louise  had  all 
the  orders  she  could  fill.     Even  Seraph's  little  fin- 
gers were  kept  busy  when  she  was  not  practismg 
on  the   violin.     She  was   delighted    to    assist    her 
mother,  and  displayed  a  great  deal  of  taste  for  the 
pretty  work.     The  mother  and  child  made  a  charm- 
ing picture,   bending   over   the  table   covered  with 
flowers  of  adorable  tints,  —  Seraph,  bright,  joyous, 
and  full  of   animation,  her  busy  fingers  fluttering 


'.■  -_*i_l<  *i-!  -  j^«i» 


;    VIOLINISTE. 

,nd  Croizet  asks  from 
br  them." 
five  dollars  for  one," 

the  carnival.  I  will 
them  from  you.  They 
le  time,  but  you  can 
m  at  yovir  leisure.  In 
oung  friend,  who  is  to 
her  bridal  parure,  and 
e  prices.  You  are  too 
our  talent,  and  charge 
laid  the  same  as  that 
en  getting  rich  off  your 

as  good  as  her  word. 

in,  and  Louise  had  all 
Gven  Seraph's  little  fin- 
she  was  not  practising 
elighted  to  assist  her 
;at  deal  of  taste  for  the 
nd  child  made  a  charm- 
the  table  covered  with 
-Seraph,  bright,  joyous. 
•  busy  fingers  fluttering 


A  NEW  LIFE.  185 

among  the  blossoms  while  she  chattered  merrily; 
Louise,  pale  and  .serious,  listening  with  calm  content, 
and  both  as  happy  as  heart  could  wish. 

And  their  days  were  not  all  labor.  Often  Ma- 
dame St.  Maxent  came  and  took  them  out  in  her 
carriage,  cheerfully  quoting  the  old  adage  about 
-all  work  and  no  play."  The.se  were  gala  days 
for  Seraph  and  her  mother;  no  matter  how  busy 
they  were,  their  active  friend  would  listen  to  no 
excuses.  It  was  part  of  her  plan  for  their  happi- 
ness, and  she  would  not  be  thwarted.  Everything 
was  laid  aside,  toilets  were  hastily  made,  and  Louise 
was  wheeled  out  to  the  carriage  by  Romeo,  and  lifted 
in  by  the  strong  coachman,  often  assisted  by  Mon- 
sieur Nardi,  while  Fifine,  Nanette,  and  the  other 
children  looked  on  in  silent  admiration. 

The  glossy  horses  would  stamp  a  little,  and 
champ  their  bits  impatiently.  Monkey  would  give 
a  series  of  joyous  barks  from  the  shop  door,  and 
the  carriage  would  roll  off,  accompanied  by  Maurice, 
clattering  after  them  on  his  spirited  pony,  and 
Seraph,  from  the  front  seat,  would  wave  her  hand 
to  Uncle  'Nidas,  who  stood  watching  them,  with 
a  beaming  face,  until  they  turned  swiftly  into  Rue 
Royale. 


1 86 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOI.IXISTE. 


In  the  spring  they  often  drove  out  b}  the  beau- 
tiful Bayou  St.  John,  and  as  they  neared  the  lake, 
came  upon  the  wide  stretch  of  low  land  where 
the  fleur-de-lis  blooms  so  luxuriantly,  carpeting  for 
miles,  with  shimmering  white,  amethyst,  blue,  and 
pale  rose,  both  sides  of  the  slender,  sinuous  bayou. 

To  the  invalid,  who  had  lived  so  long  within 
the  narrow  bounds  of  four  walls,  this  vast  expanse, 
this  wide  stretch  of  softly  blended  color,  harmon- 
izing 8(5  perfectly  with  the  blue  of  the  lake,  the 
dark  outlines  of  the  old  Spanish  fort,  and  the 
masses  of  gray-green  foliage  clearly  defined  against 
the  saffron  and  rose  of  the  sky,  made  an  enchant- 
ing picture,  which  lingered  in  her  memory,  and 
haunted  her  with  its  beauty,  even  after  she  had 
entered  into  the  silence  and  solitude  of  her  dull 
little  room. 

It  was  indeed  a  new  world,  and  a  new  life,  that 
Madame  St.  Maxent's  generosity  and  thoughtful 
kindness  had  opened  up  to  her.  And  each  day  she 
grew  stronger,  more  hopeful,  and  better  equipped 
for  the  battle  of  life. 


70/.LV/S77-:. 


^e  out  b}  the  beau- 
ey  neared  the  lake, 
if  low  land  where 
mtly,  carpeting  for 
miethyst,  blue,  and 
ider,  sinuous  bayou, 
^ed  so  long  within 
J,  this  vast  expanse, 
ided  color,  harmon- 
e  of  the  lake,  the 
lish  fort,  and  the 
arly  defined  against 
,  made  an  enchant- 
her  memory,  and 
jven  after  she  had 
jlitude  of  her  dull 

nd  a  new  life,  that 

ty  and    thoughtful 

And  each  day  she 

nd   better  equipped 


XXIV. 

ROMEO's   CONFESSION.  < 

Ql  TEAMER  after  steamer  arrived  from  Liverpool, 
^  and  Monsieur  Nardi  heard  nothing  of  Marc, 
although  Patsy  had  interviewed  all  the  sailors,  and 
informed  every  one  connected  with  the  numerous 
ships  of  the  liberal  reward  offered  by  the  old  book- 
seller to  any  one  who  would  induce  the  boy  to 
return. 

Every  few  days  Patsy  would  enter  the  bookshop, 
hat  in  hand,  his  hair  noticeably  sleek,  and  liis  face 
newly  shaven,  and  about  the  same  dialogue  would 
ensue. 

"Good    mornin',   sir;    another    steamer    at    the 

levee,  sir." 
"Ah!  any  news?" 
"  No  news,  sir." 

"  Do  you  think  they  are  trying  to  find  him  ?  " 
"  Sure,  sir ;  that  reward  would  fetch  'em." 
"  It  seems  as  though  they  might  find  some  trace 

of  him." 

187 


1  -1 
ill 

r  J* 


immSSSMiSUSStSitiim 


%\ 


hi  \ 


,88  i^™.  '™  ^'"'"  >"'"■""'''^■ 

.Yes,  sir,  it  seems  so,  but  I   reckon  you  might 

^  well  look  for  a  needle  in  »  h.ysta,-,k,  as  to  look 

Tor  a  little  shaver  like  that  an,ong  all  them  people 

on  them  Liverpool  docks,  sir." 

.Yes,  I    know.  Patsy,  but    I    hoped    the  boy 

„ight  board   some  of  the   ships  to  aak  for  news 

^Tpo'oTmtlechap!  1  guess  he  don't  mean  to 
Uave  anything  to  do  with  us.  He  went  away 
Lud  and  hurt  like.  Seein'  he  was  mnocen  ,  he 
Jluas  though  it  wasn't  just,  an'  he  had  pr.no.ples, 

that  little  kid  had."  , 

"Vknow   it,  oh,  I  know  it!"   almost  groaned 

Monsieur  Nardi,  "and  that  is  why  I  -  -." 
to  .et  him  back.    He  thinks  I  wronged  h.m   and, 
Ir  child!  I  wouldn't  harm  a  hair  of  h.s  head. 
r.\;i,,  we  won't  give  up,  sir.    While  there  s  a 
,ay  of  hopes,  I'm  agoi..'  on  enquirin'  an'   keep.n 
SiLrest  alive.    Tm  gettin' -  bo  a  pest  to  *em 
sailors,  sir,  with  my  everlastm'  questions,  an  ad«^ 
as  how  to  find  him.    H  I  wa«  over  there,  I  d  l.ght 
on  Wm  right  ofi.    Somethin'  would  tell  me  wher 
I  IMe  kid  waa.    I  never  knowed  how  near  that 
bov  was  till  he  was  gone." 

.Nor  I,  either,  Patsy,"  returned  Monsieur  Nard, 


,^  .„**^^*ftttt1»WW»*W»»»^  - 


OLINISTE. 

reckon  you  might 
laystaok,  as  to  look 
)ng  all  them  people 

I    hoped    the  boy 
,s  to  ask  for  news 

he  don't  mean  to 
IS.  He  went  away 
he  was  innocent,  he 
n'  he  had  principles, 

it!"  almost  groaned 
why  I  am  so  anxious 
I  wronged  him,  and, 
a  hair  of  his  head." 
sir.  While  there's  a 
enquirin'   an'   keepin' 

to  be  a  pest  to  them 
;  questions,  an'  advice 
,s  over  there,  I'd  light 

would  tell  me  where 
knowed  how  near  that 

turned  Monsieur  Nardi 


ROMEO 'S  CONFESS/ON. 


189 


dejectedly.     "  I  can't  give  him  up.     I  can't  be  con- 
tented until  I  see  him  again."      •  . 

"I  guess,   sir,   if    the   little   chap    knovved    how 
much   we   wanted    him    back,   he'd    come    jest    to 
oblige  us.    Well,  good  momin',  sir.    They  say  there's 
another  steamer  below  the  bend,  an'  I  must  be  on 
the  levee  when  she  gets  up.     Who  knows,  sir,  who 
knows,  but  he'll  be  on  this  one  ?     Good  mornin',  sir, 
—I  must  hurry,— good  mornin'."    And  Patsy  would 
step  off  as  briskly  as  his  stiff  old  legs  would  allow. 
About  this  time,  Romeo  was   taken  ill,  and   lay 
all   day  moaning  and  groaning  in  his   little  room; 
and  Madame  Blumenthal  was  obliged   to  have  the 
woman  who  washed   her   linen  and   did  other  odd 
work,  to  come  in  and   take   his   place.     From   the 
first  of  his  illness,  Cressy  had  been  very  attentive, 
and    Seraph    had    devoted    herself    to    him    in    a 
way  that   showed    her   affection    for    the    faithful 
old  servant. 

"That  ole  man's  mighty  porely,"  said  Lisa,  the 
negress  who  had  taken  his  place.  "An'  it  seems 
ter  me,  mam'selle,  that  it's  his  pore  mine  what's 
troubled.  He  ain't  got  no  partikler  misery  in  his 
body;  he's  jes'  ole  an'  wore  out,  an'  somefin'  is 
a-pressiu'  on  his  mine,  an'  he  can't  sleep  an'  eat." 


I' 


190 


SENAPH,    THE   LITTLE    VIOLINISTE, 


"Cressy  says  he  has  fever,"  said  Seraph,  with 
a  startled  look.  "Trouble  on  his  mind  wouldn't 
give  him  fever,  would  it?" 

"  Sutteuly,  mam'selle,  —  the  hottes'  kine  of  fever. 
I  knowed  a  lil'  gal  what  took  a  dime  from  her  ma. 
It  was  this  a  way.  Her  ma  sont  her  to  market  for 
a  grillade,  an'  she  bought  ginger  cake  'stead  o'  the 
(jrillade,  an'  et  it,  an'  tole  her  ma  how  she  done  los' 
the  dime,  an'  that  same  night  she  was  took  with 
misery   in   her    stomack,    an'    the   hottes'    kine    o' 

fever." 

"Perhaps  she  ate  too  much  ginger  cake,"  sug- 
gested Seraph. 

«  Oh  no !  Shorely  a  dime  o'  ginger  cake  wouldn't 
give  no  colored  chile  misery  in  the  stomack,  much 
lessen  fever;  'twas  jes'  her  conshuns  what  hurted 
her,  an'  she  was  bad  ofE  when  Deacon  Spotts  cum 
ter  pray  wid  her,  an'  she  up  an'  'fessed  an'  got  well 

right  off." 

«  Did  she  —  did  she  get  well  right  away  ?  "  asked 

Seraph,  with  sudden  interest. 

"  Suttenly,  mam'selle,  she  shorely  did ;  that  Same 
night  she   was  able   to   set  up  an'   eat   poke   an' 

greens." 

Seraph  walked  away  to  the  shed  room,  in  deep 


loumsTE. 

said   Seraph,  with 
his   mind   wouldn't 

ottes'  kine  of  fever, 
dime  from  her  ma. 
t  her  to  market  for 
r  cake  'stead  o'  the 
a  how  she  done  los' 
she  was  took  with 
ihe   hottes'    kine    o' 

ginger  cake,"  sug- 

ginger  cake  wouldn't 
the  stomack,  much 

nshuns  what  hurted 
beacon  Spotts  cum 

i'  'fessed  an'  got  well 

right  away  ?  "  asked 

orely  did;  that  Same 
ip  an'   eat   poke   an' 

shed  room,  in  deep 


ROMEO'S  CONFESSION. 


191 


thought.     At    the     door    she    lingered,    listening. 
Romeo  was  moaning  and  muttering  to  himself. 

"  Oh  Lor',  have  mussy  on  my  pore  ole  soul !     Oh, 
I  is  sioh  a  sinner!     I  is  wusser  dan  der   tief  on 
dcr  cross.     But,  good  Lor',  can't  yer  have  mussy 
oil  me  jes'  es  yer  done  on  dat  tief.     Oh,  I's  sinned 
wusser  dan  Judas  'Scariot,  an'  I  a  'fessin'  Christian. 
Is  'nied  my  Lor',  an'  I  can't  get  no  peace.     I's 
bin  a  ras'lin'   wid  der  sperrit,  ever   sence   I   done 
dat  deed,  an'  I  can't  git  no  peace.     But  Lor',  dear, 
good  Lor',  yer  knowed   how   I  was   tempted;   yer 
knowed   how  turruble   I  was  tempted.     I  couldn't 
see  dat  pore  chile  what  Mas'  Carl  lef  in  my  care 
jes'  a  dyin'  fer  dat  bottle  o'  Jew-crow.     Oh  Lor', 
I  couldn't  'sist  (Jat  temptation  when  I  was  in  sich 
straits.     Yer  knowed,  good  Lor',  dat  it  wasn't  fer 
me,— dis  pore  ole  nigger  doesn't  mine  goin'  hongry 
an'  cole  if  dem  chil'ren  is  jes'  comf'able.     1  wouldn't 
a  done  it  only  fer  Miss  Louise.     Pore  chile,  she  was 
pale  an'  weak,  an'  dat  blessed  111'  angel  wid  her 
bare  footses  mos'  on  der  grown'." 

Seraph  could  hear  no  more.  A  sudden  sob  re- 
vealed her  presence,  and  Romeo's  expression  sud- 
denly changed  from  a  look  of  mental  agony  to  a 
ghastly  attempt  at  a  smile. 


I. 


r 


,g2  5/-A'./m    THE  UTTI.B    VIOLINISTE. 

MVhy.  Miss  Soraph,  is  you  a  cry  in' ?    Bress  my 
soul,  what  isyer  cryin    fer,  honey?" 

-  Because -boeause    I    am    so    sorry    for    you, 
Romeo,"  said  Seraph,  swalh.wing  her  sobs. 

^^Why,  chile,  yer  don't  t'ink  I's  goin  ter  die, 
does  yer?  Shorely  I  ain't  sick  ernuffi  ter  d.e  ,s 
19  My  fever's  done  gone,  on'y-on'y  1  is  res  less 
an'  onsartain  like;  my  mine's  sick;  der  misery  sm 

mv  mine.  I's  tired  ras'lin'  wid  der  spernt.  1  s- 
done  wore  out;  n.y  'ligion  don't  gib  me  peace, 
honey.     Dat's  my  sickness  mo'  dan  der  fever. 

.If   it's  your  mind,  Romeo,  can't  you  do  some- 
thing to  cure  your  mind?"  asked  Seraph  pers.ja- 

ively.     ''Lisa  just   told   me  of   a  little   girl   who 

had   misery   in  her  mind,  or  perhaps   it   was  her 

•  e;nscience.     She   had  been  wicked,  and  when   she 

confessed,  she  got  well   right  away  and  was  able 

to  sit  up  and  eat  pork  and  greens. 

.Lor,  chile,  do  tell  me  if    dat's   true       ^«^ 

Romeo's  haggard  old  face  took  on  a  hopeful  look^ 

.Yes,  Romeo,   it's  true.     Lisa  knew    the    little 

girl.     -SAe    had    something  on  her  mind  and  she 

'''l^Tou'say  she  'fessed,  Miss  Seraph;  now  who  did 
she  'fess  to?" 


VIOUNISTE. 


A'0A/J:0'S  COA'F/iSS/(W. 


»93 


a  cry  in'  ?    Bress  my 


•)'» 


loney 

HO    sorry    for    you, 
ing  her  sobs, 
nk   I's   goin'    ter  die, 
ick  erniifE   ter  die,  is 
I'y  —  on'y  1  is  res'less 
sick;  der  misery's  in 
wid   der   sperrit.     Ts 
don't   gib   nie    peace, 
lo'  dan  der  fever." 
JO,  can't  you  do  some- 
asked  Seraph  persua- 
'  of   a  little   girl   who 
ir  perhaps   it   was  her 
wicked,  and  when   she 
hi  away  and  was  able 
greens. 

if    dat's   true!"    And 

ook  on  a  hopeful  look. 

Lisa  knew    the   little 

on  her  mind  and  she 


ss 


Seraph ;  now  who  did 


"To  a  Deacon  Potts,  I  think  Lisa  said." 

•'  Oh  Lor',  Miss  Seraph,  I  couldn't  git  cured  dat 
a  way.  Dat  would  bning  a  r'proach  on  'ligion,  un' 
de  Bible  say  *  wo  ter  him  dut  brung  der  r'proach.' 
No,  no,  I  couldn't  'fess  ter  Deacon  Spotts.  No, 
I  couldn't  'fend  der  Lor'  dat  a  way,"  repeated 
Komeo  unea.sily  and  witii  unmistakable  decision. 

''Well,  then,  Romeo,  couldn't  you  confess  to 
Uncle  'Nidas  ?  He's  so  good  and  forgiving,  couldn't 
you  confess  to  him?"  urged  Seraph  sweetly.  "I 
want  you  to  get  well.  Mamma  needs  you.  She 
isn't  used  to  Lisa.  Lisa  doesn't  market  as  you 
do.  Mamma  says  .she  spends  too  much  money. 
Oh,  Romeo,  you  must  confess  and  get  well." 

'•  I's  feared  o'  M'sieu'  'Nidas,  honey ;  he  mought 
—  he  mought  —  " 

"  Oh  no !  Romeo ;  he  won't ;  he  told  me,  he  said 
if  any  one  had  — had—  Well,  you  know  what  I 
mean,  fiomeo.  He  said  he  wouldn't  punish  any 
one.  I  can't  explain,  but  if  I  had  misery  in  my 
mind  as  you  have,  I  would  send  for  dear  Uncle 
'Nidas  and  confess  as  soon  as  I  could ;  so  that  I 
could  get  well.  I'm  afraid  if  you  don't  you'll  be 
worse,  and  perhaps  you'll  never  get  over  it." 

Romeo   groaned  in  the   spirit.     "Oh   Lor',  have 


-itiwiiiseoasai*™!*-**" 


„4  SHHAPI/.    THE  LITTLE    vmlMISTE. 

m„„y  on  me.  Oh,  Mi»  Seraph,  honey,  f"  a  ra.'- 
lin'  wid  der  sperrit  dU  very  minnit.  It»  turruble. 
turruble-,  V.  mos'  shausted.  Vs  mo,  outdone 
but  U  goin  ter  git  der  victory.  1 »  gom  <*r 
•fes»  all  ter  Mmeu'  'Nidas.  Run,  honey,  run  v-hde 
r,  got  der  rtrent,  an  quest  him  ter  step  m  right 
ofl,  er  maybe  I  wont  have  der  courage." 

Seraph  scarcely  waited  to  hear  the  last  of  the 
sentence.  She  darted  out,  pale  and  tremulous  with 
the  importance  of  her  mission. 

In  a  mon.ent  she  returned,  her  face  bright  and 
hopeful.  "He  is  coming  right  away,  Romeo-  he s 
right  behind  me.  Confess  ewrffMi..!,  -  don  t  he 
afraid -Uncle  'Nidas  has  promised  to -to  forgive 
_no  matter  what  it  is.  Now  I'll  run  and  tell 
Lisa  to  cooli  yo«  some  pork  and  greens 

When  Monsieur  Nardi  entered  the  shed  room, 
the  old  negro  was  sitting  up,  holding  out  his  arms 
entreatingly,  and  fairly  writhing  under  the  stress 

of  the  moment. 

"Oh,  M'sieu'  Nardi,  I  wants  ter  'fess  der  trufe, 
der  Lor's  trafe;  I  wants  ter  tell  you  what  a  sinner 
I  is,  but  won't  yer  promise  me  not  ter  take  der 
law  on  me,  not  ter  sen'  me  ter  jail  ferde  sake  of 

dese  two  pore  children  what's  'pendent  on  me . 


■•w.ii(w.jui«wm*J».«J»M"M I  ■  nwnwKiKrwSKy 


'OUNISTE. 

I,  honey,  I's  a  ras'- 

mit.     It's  turruble, 

I's    nios'    outdone, 

iry-     Is    K®^"'    ^^^ 
n,  honey,  run  while 
ni  ter  step  in  right 
•  courage." 
ear  the  last  of   the 
and  tremulous  with 

her  face  bright  and 
,  away,  Romeo;  he's 
verything  —  don't   be 
mised  to  — to  forgive 
)W   I'll   run   and  tell 
md  greens." 
Bred   the  shed   room, 
holding  out  his  arms 
ing  under  the   stress 

ts  ter  'fess  der  trufe, 
tell  you  what  a  sinner 
me  not  ter  take  der 
ter  jail  fer  de  sake  of 
's  'pendent  on  me?" 


KOAfEO'S  COATfESSWM  IQ«; 

"Go  on,  my  old  friend,  go  on;  tell  me  all  about 
It;  said  Monsieur  Nardi  kindly;  -and  no  matter 
what  it  is,  1  promise  to  forgive  you  before  I  hear 
It. 

"  Bress  der  Lor',  bress  der  Lor',"  murmured 
Romeo  fervently.  "An'  yer  won't  tell  Miss 
Louise,  an'  dat  chile,  please  M'sieu'  'Nidas,  cause 
dey  'siders  ole  Roirieo  a  good  hones'  servant." 

"  What  passes  between  us  will  remain  a  secret. 
Go  on,  my  friend ;  don't  be  afraid,  go  on,"  urged 
Monsieur  Nardi  gently. 

"  Yer  see,  M'sieu'  Nardi,  I's  got  ter  tell  yer  all 
dat  story ;  I's  got  ter  'spose   Miss   Louise's  pov'ty. 
A'ter  dat  money  done  stop  comin'  from   Germany 
she     was    dreffully    pinched,      She     didn't     have 
money  ter  buy  som'fin  ter  eat,  an'  if  it  hadn't  bin 
fer  Miss  Cressy  a-givin'  me  HI'   things  outen  yore 
kitchen,  an'  what   money  she  paid   me  fer   'sistin' 
her,  they  would  o'  gone   hungry  plenty  times,  an' 
Miss    Louise  was    gettin'    peaked    an'    weak,    an' 
couldn't  sit  up  to   make   dem  flowers,   'cause  she 
didn't  have  der  med'cine,  der  Jew-crow,  what  der 
doctor  done  ordered,  an'  Miss  Seraph's  shoes  was  all 
wored   out,  an'  no  money  to  buy  some.     One   day 
1  found   two  loose   boards  in  der  fence,  an'  I  use 


n, 


196 


SF.RArif,    THE   I.ITTI.F.    VfOUXlSTE. 


i 


ter  slii)  '«m  aHulc  an'  step  inter  yore  kitchen,  when 
MiHW  Cressy  waw  a-waitin'  on  you,  'cause  she  done 
told   me    I   could    pick   up  any  lil'   tiling  ter  eat, 
what  was  a  Hettin'  'roun',  an'  wasn't  no  use.     An 
dat   mawnin'    I    seed   er   basket  er  grapes  on   der 
table  by  der  win'or,  an'  der  glass  was  open,  and  I 
jes'  reach  frew  ter  take  a  han'ful  fer  Miss  Louise, 
'cause   she   likes   grapes   pow'ful,  an'  right  dar  on 
der  table,  jes'  as  if  der  good  Lor'  done  put  it  on 
pn'pose    fer   nic   ter  take,   was   two   silber  dollars, 
one   fer   de   Jew-crow   an'   one   fer    Miss    Seraph's 
shoes.     I  didn't   stop  ter  think   dat  it  mought   be 
stealin'.     I    jes'   clap   'em   in   my   ole   pocket,   an' 
step  quick    frew  der  hole  in  der  fence,  an'  no  one 
ain't  seen   me   in  yore  yard  dat  mawnin',  an'  no 
one  ain't  knowed  'bout  dat  hole  in  der  fence.     Den 
Miss  Louise  sont  me  wid  de  flowers,  an'  done  tol' 
me  ter  ask   Ma'me  Croizet  ter  pay  her  a  lil'  mo', 
'cause  dey  was  mo'   wuk,  an'    Ma'me  Croizet   she 
'fuse  ter  gib  a  nickle   mo' ;  but  I  jes'   bought  der 
Jew-crow,  an'  tole  Miss  Louise  how  Ma'me  Croizet 
sont  her  two  dollars  extra,  den  I  bought  der  shoes 
fer  Miss  Seraph  wid  der  las'  dollar.     Now,  M'sieu' 
'Nidas,  1  done  tole  yer  de  whole  trufe,  an'  wh.at 
gib   me   der  misery   in   my   mine  was  'cause    dat 


■iBjIiiiiiiigiMiiNiiHMM^^  <• 


wusnuTE. 

yore  kitchen,  when 
lU,  'cause  she  done 

lil'    thing  ter  eat, 
rasn't  no  use.     An 

er  grapoH  on  der 
H8  waH  open,  and  1 
ful  for  MIhs  Louise, 
1,  an'  right  dar  on 
AYt    done  put  it  on 

two   silber  dollars, 

fer    Miss    Seraph's 

dat  it  mought  be 
my  olo  pocket,  an' 
!r  fence,  an'  no  one 
at  mawnin',  an'  no 
3  in  der  fence.  Den 
lowers,  an'  done  tol' 
■  pay  her  a  lil'  mo', 

Ma'me  Croizet  she 
lit  I  jes'   bought  der 

how  Ma'me  Croizet 
I  I  bought  der  shoes 
lollar.  Now,  M'sieu' 
hole  trufe,  an'  wh.at 
line  was  'cause    dat 


HOMEO'S  COJVffSKroM 


'    t 


»^r 


pore  hoy  got  blamed    fer  my   wickednesses.     Now 
yer  kn.)WN  he  didn't  take  dat  money." 

'•I    knew    that    before,"    said     Monsieur    Nardi 
quietly. 

•'An'  you  didn't  s'pect  me?" 
"No,    Romeo,    I    didn't    suspect   you,  because   I 
didn't  know  about  the  hole  in  the  fence,"  returned 
the  old   gentleman   dryly.     "It   i.s    true,   my  poor 
old    friond,   that    tli..    temptation    was   very   great, 
but    I    wish   you    had   asked    for    the   money.      It 
would    have    saved    nuich    trouble.      Never    allow 
yourself  to  be  tempted  again.     Come  to  me  when 
you   need   anything.     Do  you   understand?    Come 
to  me.     I  am  glad  that  you  have  had  the  courage, 
even    at    this    late    hour,    to    confess    your    fault. 
Now   lie    down    and    go    to  sleep,   and   to-morrow 
you  will  feel  better." 

"  Bress  der  Lor',  M'sieu*  'Nidas  !  Bress  der  Lor' ! 
You's  mighty  good  ter  me,  an'  I  feel  der  misery 
a-goin'  off  a'ready.  I's  better  a'ready.  Tank  der 
Lor'!"  And  Romeo  laid  his  trembling  old  head 
back  on  his  pillow,  with  the  feeling  of  one  who 
has  been  suddenly  relieved  of  an  oppressive  burden. 
"What  a  noble  soul  the  child  has,"  thought 
Monsieur    Nardi,   as    he    went    back    to   his   shop. 


jgS  SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

« She   knew  it  was  Romeo  who  took  the   money, 
and  in  order  to  clear  Marc,  and  at  the  same  tmie 
to   shield   her   old    servant,   she    preferred  that  I 
should  think   she  was  guilty.     I  knew  there  was 
something  back  of   it  all    that   I    did   not   under- 
stand      There  would  have  been  no  mystery  had  1 
known  that  my  yard  had  another  entrance  besides 
the  gate  which  Cressy  guards  so  faithfully.     Well, 
I   am    glad    it    is   explained   at   last.     Now,    if    1 
could  find  Marc,  I  should  be  happy  again." 


LE    VIOLINISTE. 


who  took  the   money, 
:,  and  at  the  same  time 
;,   she    preferred  that  I 
Ity.     I  knew  there  was 
that   I    did   not   under- 
been  no  mystery  had  I 
another  entrance  besides 
trds  so  faithfully.     Well, 
ed   at    last.     Now,    if    I 
be  happy  again." 


XXV. 

THE   WHITE   SHIP. 

TT  was  a  year  after  Mare's  departure,  and  spring 
had  come  around  again.  The  fig  tree  in 
Monsieur  Nardi's  garden  was  putting  forth  its 
leaves,  and  the  multiflora  rose  was  one  mass  of 
pale  blossoms.  Nearly  every  evening  Seraph  came 
to  play  her  Cremona  under  its  fragrant  shade, 
while  Monsieur  Nardi  sat  near  by  and  listened 
dreamily.  Sometimes  Professor  Vortman  joined 
them,  and  often  Louise  was  brought  out  in  her 
wheel-chair  to  enjoy  the  sweetness  and  beauty  of 
spring. 

Romeo,  in  his  confession,  had  given  Monsieur 
Nardi  a  hint  for  a  very  convenient  and  pleasant 
arrangement.  Where  the  loose  pickets  had  been, 
much  to  Seraph's  delight.  Uncle  'Nidas  had  put  a 
little  gate,  and  as  it  always  stood  open,  the  two 
yards  were  like  one.  Monkey  romped  in  and  out, 
and  Toto,  who  appreciated  beauty  in  a  wise,  serious 
way,  passed  most  of  his  time  on  Louise's  work-table, 
examining  her  flowers  with  a  fastidious  air,  and 

»99 


I 


200 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


Ill 


sniffing  at  them  a  little  disdainfully,  as  if  he  knew 
that  they  lacked  perfume;  and  even  Flute's  cage 
hung  as  often  on  one  side  of  the  fence  as  on  the 
other,  while  the  best  understanding  existed  between 
the  domestics  of  the  two  small  families. 

Cressy  and  Romeo  were  mutually  interested,  work- 
ing together  in  beautiful  harmony  for  the  general 
good.  Seraph  was  practising  with  constant  delight, 
and  always  improving  under  the  careful  instruction 
of  her  excellent  professor,  who  now  had  as  many 
pupils  as  he  desired,  but  none  who  equalled  in 
talent  and  beauty  Cousin  Franz's  little  prot^.gk. 
Louise  worked  cheerfully  at  her  numerous  orders, 
which  yielded  her  a  comfortable  income.  Owing 
to  Madame  St.  Maxent's  kindness,  her  health  was 
improving,  and  each  day  she  felt  stronger,  happier, 
and  more  hopeful. 

While  there  was  only  peace  and  harmony  in  the 
little  cottage  on  St.  Louis  Street,  Cousin  Franz,  in 
his  larger  and  more  imposing  house,  often  found 
himself  disturbed  by  small  squalls  and  contrary 
wmds.  Madge,  the  demure  and  docile  Madge,  was 
beginning  to  develop  a  character  of  her  own,  and 
much  to  her  parent's  astonishment,  a  rather  light 
and  frivolous  character. 


vgm 


liiiiilii 


'lOUNISTE. 

Eully,  as  if  he  knew 

even   Flute's   cage 

he  fence  as  on  the 

ing  existed  between 

families. 

illy  interested,  work- 
)ny  for  the  general 
ith  constant  delight, 
e  careful  instruction 
now  had  as  many 
e  who  equalled  in 
Luz's  little  prot^.gk. 
er  numerous  orders, 
ble  income.  Owing 
less,  her  health  was 
3lt  stronger,  happier, 

and  harmony  in  the 
jet,  Cousin  Franz,  in 
;  house,  often  found 
iqualls  and  contrary 
d  docile  Madge,  was 
ter  of  her  own,  and 
ment,  a  rather  light 


■-s^* 


THE    WHITE  SHIP, 


201 


'  Madame  Araet,  notwithstanding  her  stolid  and 
P^cfcal  nature,  was  not  without  vanity,  a„d  a 
k  nd  of  envy,  which  she  dignified  with  the  name 
of  a,„b.t,on.  Since  Seraph  had  made  i„fl„e„t"I 
r,ends,  she  wished  that  Madge  should  also,  the! 
o  e  she  had  p„t  her  little  daughter  at  a  kshil 
aWe    school    on    Esplanade    Avenue,  where    sh. 

assocuted  with  rich  and  dressy  girls  who  h,^  hi: 
bro^ht  up  „  a  manner  entirely  at  variance   with 
Cousm    Frank's    ideas    and    theories.     And    ouiet 
demure   little  K«.ge  saw  a  great   deal   withTer 

»mall  ea«  nestled  under  her  fawnK=olo„.d  hair 

Madge  said  little,  but  she  thought  the  more.    She 
knew  that  she  had  money  left  her  by  her  father 
she  .magmed  that  she  was  rich,  and   she  saw  n„' 

m  iier  hats,  and  wear  smart  little  silk  frocks  a, 
we^^  as  the  other  girls  in  her  class.  Her  tZte  foT 
m.llmery  was  rapidly  improving.  From  being  a 
manufacturer  of  dolls'  confections  she  became  a  con- 

'"T"  ''"'^'  '"'^^'"'''  ^--^  "'•jected  so  stren- 
uously  to  her  plain  hats  and  equally  plain  frocks, 
^  her  mother  and  Cousin  Franz  were  scandal- 


!iRw^i;'^.«M^.w»*;*«t"<i&S**>^-^>*'' 


202 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


^up: 


She  suddenly  announced  a  distaste  for  the  solid 
language  of  her  forefathers,  and  declared  a  prefer- 
ence for  French  and  Italian,  which  was  followed 
up  by  a  fancy  for  china-painting.  Really,  Madge 
was  developing  in  the  most  remarkable  manner. 
It  was  very  nuich  as  though  a  meek  dove  had 
unexpectedly  changed   into  a  gay  macaw. 

Madame  Arnet  stitched  away,  outwardly  calm, 
but  inwardly  floundering  in  deep  waters  of  doubt 
and  anxiety;  while  Cousin  Franz,  more  perplexed 
than  ever  over  the  enigma  of  the  human  mind, 
wished  devoutly  that  another  Professor  Vortman 
would  turn  up  and  solve  the  problem  in  Madge's 
case  as  easily  and  successfully  as  it  had  been 
solved  in  Seraph's. 

And  while  aU  these  little  incidents  were  taking 
place,  and  the  drama  of  each  life  was  unfolding  as 
the  destiny  of  each  decreed,  nothing  was  heard  of 
Marc,  and  Monsieur  Nardi,  although  never  recon- 
ciled to  the  thought,  began  to  feel  that  the  boy 
was  gone  forever,  and  it  was  a  shadow  on  his 
life  and  on  his  heart  that  never  could  be  lifted 
until  he  found  the  means  of  making  some  repara- 
tion for  the  wrong  done  the  child. 

One  lovely. evening,  when  twilight  was  drawing 


VIOLINISTE. 

listaste  for  the  solid 
id  declared  a  prefer- 
which  was  followed 
,ing.     Really,  Miulge 

remarkable    manner. 
1   a  meek   dove   had 

gay  macaw. 
^ay,  outwardly  calm, 
deep  waters  of  doubt 
'ranz,  more  perplexed 
of  the  human  mind, 
r  Professor   Vortman 

problem   in   Madge's 
dly    as    it    had    been 

incidents  were  taking 

life  was  unfolding  as 

nothing  was  heard  of 

although  never  recon- 

to  feel  that  the  boy 

vas  a  shadow    on    his 

never  could  be  lifted 

:  making  some  repara- 

.  child. 

twilight  was  drawing 


THE    WHITE  SHIP. 


203 


on,  he  wandered  down  to  the  levee,  and  stood  in 
his  accustomed  place,  hat  in  hand,  while  the 
delicious  breeze  fanned  hig  forehead. 

The  conditions  were  much  the  same  as  on  that 
night  when  he  had  first  seen  the  honest  eyes  of 
the  boy  peering  at  him  from  under  the  fold  of 
canvas.  There  was  just  such  a  pile  of  cotton 
bales,  the  fluffy  little  bunches  sticking  to  the 
weather-worn  tarpaulin,— the  same  little  niches 
where  a  thin,  large-eyed  boy  might  hide;  — just 
such  a  pile  of  old  boards  as  had  concealed  his 
humble  treasures. 

Great  black  ships  lay  with  their  bulwarks  high 
above  the   levee,  for  the   river,  nearly  even   with 
its  banks,  was  rushing  and  swirling  along  on  its 
impetuous  way  to  the  Gulf.     The  Steamers  puffed 
and   groaned    in    raid-strJam,   aiid    now    and   then 
the    shrill    whistle    of    a    tug    echoed    from    the 
farther  shore.     There  was  the  same   saffron  and 
rose  sky,  the  same  black,  trailing  smoke,  the  same 
sunset  tints  on  the  water ;  all  appeared   the  same. 
It  seemed   ^  if  there  had   been   no  change,  and 
that  he  might  turn  his  head  at  any  moment  and 
see  those  great  brown  eyes  looking  at  him. 
But  no;  there  was  not  a  living  being  near  him. 


304 


SEKAPH,    THE  LITTLE   VIOLINISTE. 


Even  Patsy  had  deserted  his  post.  Perhaps  he 
was  away  up  the  levee  searching  some  new 
arrival.  For  the  old  watchman  had  not  renoimced 
hope.  At  the  sight  of  a  foreign  ship  coming 
around  the  bend,  his  old  heart  always  gave  a 
throb  of  expectancy,  he  always  felt  that  perhaps 
the  long-expected  traveller  of  the  sea  had  arrived, 
bringing  the  little  waif,  or  some  tidings  of  him. 

Seeing  no  one  near  him,  Monsieur  Nardi  turned 
his  attention  again  towards  the  river;  when  sud- 
denly coming  around  the  bend  he  saw  a  great 
white  ship,  so  white  and  glistening,  so  majestic 
and  stately  as  she  proudly  cut  her  way  through 
the  swift,  strong  current,  coming  nearer  and  nearer, 
until  the  steady  throbs  of  her  great  heart  were 
audible  above  the  swirl  and  rush  of  the  river. 
She  was  a  beautiful  image  of  strength  and  grace, 
and  even  of  hope  and  happiness  to  Monsieur  Nardi. 
As  he  watched  her,  his  eyes  kindled  and  his  cheeks 
tlu.shed. 

"Ah!"  he  said  to  himself,  "a  white  ship.  I 
remember  it  was  a  white  ship  that  took  Marc 
away.  I  remember  I  stood  just  here  and  watched 
her  disappear  around  the  bend;  only  it  was  the 
morning   sun  that    shone  on   her.     The    sky   was 


^e^^''saglia«'KaSisrfl&*a^'**^* 


■^^^^^im^^ . 


VIOLIN  1ST E. 


THE    WHITE  SHIP. 


ao5 


is    post.     Perhaps   he 
searching    some    new 
m  had  not  renounced 
foreign    ship    coming 
leart    always    gave    a 
ays  felt  that   perhaps 
'  the  sea  had  arrived, 
Dme  tidings  of  him. 
lonsienr  Nardi  turned 
the  river;   when  sud- 
»end   he   saw   a    great 
glistening,   so   majestic 
cut   her  way  through 
ling  nearer  and  nearer, 
her   great  heart   were 
d   rush    of   the    river. 
)f  strength  and  grace, 
less  to  Monsieur  Nardi. 
cindled  and  his  cheeks 

ilf,  "a  white  ship.  I 
ship  that  took  Marc 
just  here  and  watched 
lend ;  only  it  was  the 
n   her.     The    sky   was 


blue,  and  the  river  sparkled  like  liquid  gold.  The 
water  was  not  as  high  nor  as  swift.  The  trees 
on  the  farther  shore  looked  as  if  they  were  sten- 
cilled in  black  against  the  silvery  white  clouds.  It 
was  beautiful.  I  remember  that  I  was  impressed 
with  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  but  my  heart  was 
heavy  at  the  sight  of  the  great  white  ship  taking 
the  boy  away.  Now  here  comes  a  white  ship, 
returning  from 'a  distance,  and  it  may  be  the  very 
one.  The  boy  may  be  on  her.  Yes,  even  now 
he  may  be  looking  eagerly  toward  this  very  spot. 
Ah !  the  white  ship  returning  at  sunset  may  bring 
back  what  she  took  away  at  sunrise." 

Suddenly  there  was  a  slackening  in  the  speed 
of  the  great  ship.  She  paused,  shivered  from 
stem  to  stern,  and  then  rolled  from  side  to  side 
as  if  impatient  at  being  checked  on  her  onward 
career.  A  nmffled,  harsh,  discordant  sound  came 
faintly  across  the  water.  She  was  paying  out  her 
anchor  chains.  She  was  anchoring  in  mid-stream 
for  the  night. 


«.:.:«« 


''  |Hi 


mmrnKmnimUiimitSS^^ 


1 


XXVI. 

IN   DANGER. 

WHEN  Monsieur  Nardi  saw  that  the  white 
ship  had  cast  anchor  below  the  city,  and 
that  there  was  no  prospect  of  her  arriving  at  the 
wharf  that  night,  he  felt  deeply  disappointed. 

Although   he   could  not  be  positive,  yet  he  felt 
quite    sure   that  it   was  the  same  ship    that  had 
Uken  Marc  away,  and  the  impression  that  he  had 
returned  with  her  grew  strong  upon   him.     After 
watching  her  for  some  time  he   still  lingered  m 
the  hope   that  Patsy  might  appear,  for  he   knew 
that   the   old  watchman  was  well   acquamted  with 
every  foreign    ship    that    entered    the    river,   and 
could  tell  him  positively  whether  it  was  the  one 
on  which  the  boy  had  sailed. 

But  Patsy  did  not  turn  up,  and  darkness  was 
rapidly  gathering  every  object  into  its  dense  gray 
folds  The  great  white  steamer  looked  as  dim 
and  ghostly  as  a  phantom  ship.  The  farther  shore 
was  no  longer  visible,  all  the  color  had  faded  out 

206 


IN  DANGER, 


ao7 


B. 

saw  that    the    white 
below  the  city,  and 
af  her  arriving  at  the 
eply  disappointed. 
»e  positive,  yet  he  felt 
same  ship    that  had 
mpression  that  he  had 
ong  upon   him.     After 
le  he   still  lingered  in 
;  appear,  for  he   knew 
3  well   acquainted  with 
sntered    the    river,   and 
whether  it  was  the  one 

id. 

up,  and  darkness  was 
ject  into  its  dense  gray 
jteamer  looked  as  dim 
(hip.  The  farther  shore 
the  color  had  faded  out 


of  the  sky,  leaving  it  a  mournful  purple,  while 
liore  and  there  a  pale  star  glistened  like  a  touch 
of  silver  on  a  funeral  pall.  " 

The  river  complained  and  fretted  against  its 
barriers  in  sullen  remonstrance,  or  now  and  then 
dii.shed  angrily  among  the  mas.sive  piles  as  if  im- 
patient to  break  its  bounds  and  rush  unimpeded 
over  the  fair  land.  The  wind  rose  suddenly,  and 
a  chilling  mist  swept  up  from  the  Gulf.  Monsieur 
Nardi  drew  his  coat  together  and  turned  reluc- 
tantly away.  He  could  learn  nothing  more  until 
morning. 

He  had  not  felt  well  of  late  ;  he  had  been  troubled 
with  insomnia;  and  finding  himself  restless  and 
sleepless  when  he  reached  home,  he  decided  not 
to  retire  at  his  usual  hour,  but  instead,  to  work 
on  a  catalogue  which  he  was  preparing;  so  he  lit 
his  reading-lamp  in  the  sitting-room  behind  the 
shop  and  laid  out  his  papers  and  books  on  the 
table. 

After  working  busily  for  a  while  he  found  that 
he  needed  a  certain  book  of  reference,  and  lighting 
a  candle  he  went  into  his  shop  to  search  for  it. 
He  placed  his  candle  on  a  lower  shelf  which  pro- 
jected beyond  the  upper  ones,  and  set  about  pulling 


^« 


ao8 


SERAri/,    lUE  LITTLE    ITOLINISTE, 


out  a  great  many  Ijooks  and  papen  in  order  to 
find  what  \\v  was  looking  for.  At  last,  when  he 
had  secured  it,  he  returned  to  his  sitting-room  in 
a  thoughtful,  preoccupied  mood,  and  loft  the  burn- 
ing candle  where  he  had  placed  it.  Then  he  drew 
up  his  reading-chair,  and  putting  the  book,  which 
was  heavy,  on  the  movable  desk  in  front  of  him, 
he  settled  himself  comfortably  to  look  up  his 
authorities. 

For  some  time  he  worked  on  steadily,  then  h 
drowsiness  began  to  creep  over  him.  He  had  slepi 
little  for  several  nights,  and  he  was  greatly  in  need 
of  "  nature's  sweet  restorer,"  so  he  let  his  head  fall 
back  against  the  comfortable  cushion  of  the  chair, 
and  in  a  few  moments  he  was  sleeping  profoundly. 

It  was  midnight,  and  in  St.  Louis  Street  every- 
thing was  quiet.  The  neighboring  families  had  all 
retired.  There  were  no  lights  visible  in  the  win- 
dows, and  no  sound  broke  the  silence  only  the 
occasional  step  of  a  belated  and  solitary  passer.  It 
was  a  moonless  night,  and  the  dense  mist  filled 
the  narrow  street.  There  were  watery  halos  about 
the  lamps  burning  dimly  at  the  corner  of  each 
square,  and  all  else  was  enfolded  in  darkness. 

So  desolate  and  deserted  was  the  street  at  that 


tJlljWP' 


I  ■■mmin.'ii 


£    nOUNlSTE. 

nd  papen  in  order  to 
or.  At  last,  when  he 
to  his  sitting- room  in 
)od,  and  loft  the  burn- 
ced  it.  Then  he  drew 
itting  the  book,  which 
desk  in  front  of  him, 
ably    to    look    up    his 

d  on  steadily,  then  t 
er  him.  He  had  slepi 
he  was  greatly  in  need 
so  he  let  his  head  fall 
2  cushion  of  the  chair, 
as  sleeping  profoundly. 
St.  Louis  Street  every- 
boring  families  had  all 
its  visible  in  the  win- 

the   silence    only  the 
and  solitary  passer.     It 

the   dense   mist   filled 
ere  watery  halos  about 
it  the  corner  of   each 
olded  in  darkness, 
was  the  street  at  that 


JN  DANGER. 


309 


hour  that  a  passer  would  have  })oen  startled  to  see 
.1  small  (igure  sitting  in  a  door-way  opposite  to 
Monsieur  Nardi's  shop.  His  elbow  was  on  his 
knee,  and  his  chin  rested  on  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
His  narrow,  pale  face  made  a  white  .spot  under  ;i 
sailor's  cap,  on  the  ribbon  of  which  faintly  gleamed 
a  silver  anchor.  A  sailor's  blue  .shirt  and  trousers 
completed  his  costume,  which  appeared  altogether 
too  large  and  too  mature  for  him.  He  looked  a 
delicate,  sickly  boy  of  twelve,  very  neglected,  and 
very  forlorn.  And  as  lie  sat  there,  he  seemed  to 
have  but  one  object,  and  that  was  to  stare  with 
unnaturally  large  eyes  at  the  dark  and  forbidding 
front  of  Monsieur  Nardi's  shop. 

The  wooden  shutters  were  closed  tightly  under 
their  iron  bars,  and  even  the  blinds  on  the  upjier 
rooms  were  "  shut  in  "  instead  of  being  "  bowed," 
as  they  usually  were. 

"  He's  sound  asleep,"  thought  the  boy.  "  Every 
one's  asleep.  It  don't  seem  a.s  if  any  one  in  the 
whole  street  was  awake.  There  ain't  even  a  p'lice- 
man  about.  It's  enough  sight  lonesomer  than 
aboard  ship  out  in  the  stream.  It's  even  lone- 
somer than  on  the  levee.  I  wish  I'd  stayed  aboard 
to-night    instead    of    comin'    off    in    the    boat.     I 


\-i 


2,o  SKKANf,    THE   UTILE    VIOUNIHTE. 

thought  IM  fnxl  Mr.  Patsy  on  the  wharf,  an'  I 
kiDWo'l  he'd  he  gUul  to  Hee  me,  but  he  wasn't 
there.  Oh  I've  been  gone  m  long  that  lots  o'  things 
.nigiit  of  Happened.  Perhaps  Mr.  Patsy's  dead. 
Perhaps  Mr.  'Nidas  is  dead.  Maybe  every  one's 
dead.  These  houses  don't  look  as  if  any  one  was 
alive  in  'eui.  I  guess  I'll  go  back  to  the  wharf 
an'  hunt  up  rny  old  bed  among  the  cotton  bales." 
Then,  with  a  deep  sigh  : 

«'lt's  all    the    home  I've  got   to  go  to.     I   don't 
s'pose  Mr.  'Nidas  wants  to  see  me;  he  don't  want 
to  see  no  thief.     If  he  ain't  found  out  that  I  didn't 
steal   that  money,  he  might  run  me  in  even  now. 
Well,  I  ain't  goin'  to  take  no  risks.     I  ain't  goin 
to  be  locked  up  for  nothin'.     I've  got  to  clear  out 
pretty  sharp.     I  mustn't  be  caught  a-hangin  'round 
here.     I  must  look  up  a  vessel  bound  out  early  in 
the  mornin'  an'  get  out  the  way  again,  but  I'd  like 
to  see  Mr.  'Nidas ;  I'd  jest  like  to  git  a  little  sight 
of   him,  an'   he  not  know  it.     If   I   could  'a  come 
early,  before  the  shutters  was  up,  I  could   'a  saw 
him  an'  all  them  books,  but  I  didn't  darst  to  come 
up  early,  fear    I'd  git  caught.    I  wouldn't  mmd 
a  puttin'  off   to   sea   again,  if   I   could  jest   git  a 
sight  of  him,  an'  Monkey,  an'  Toto.    An'  Seraph, 


VIOUI^ISTE, 

an    the  wharf,  an'   I 

me,  but   ho   wasn't 

)ng  that  lots  o'  things 

Mr.    Patsy's    dead. 

Maybe  every  one's 
k  as  if  any  one  was 
)  back  to  the  wharf 
ng  the  cotton  bales." 

)t  to  go  to.  I  don't 
so  me;  he  don't  want 
lund  out  that  I  didn't 
run  me  in  even  now. 

0  risks.     I  ain't  goin' 
I've  got  to  clear  out 

fiught  a-hangin'  'round 
Bel  bound  out  early  in 
/ay  again,  but  I'd  like 
ie  to  git  a  little  sight 
.  If  I  could  'a  come 
18  up,  I  could   'a  saw 

1  didn't  darst  to  come 
;ht.     I  wouldn't  mind 

if  I  could  jest  git  a 
an'  Toto.    An'  Seraph, 


AV  PAXGER. 


2\l 


too.  Yes,  Seraph.  >f  an'  her  was  chums.  She 
liked  me.  I  wondvr  ii  nIio  knowod  they  thought 
I  stole.  I'd  'a  bri>iight  her  some  beads  from  Cal- 
cutta, only  I  was  afeard  she  knowed,  an'  wouldn't 
take  'em.  Well,  I  gue.ss  I'll  go  back  to  the  levee. 
I  can't  see  no  moi*  by  stay  in    here." 

With  a  dis(!Ouraged  sigh  he  arose  and  prepared 
to  move  on,  when  suddenly  he  saw  through  the 
mist  a  faint  gleam  of  light  that  seemed  to  emerge 
from  under  the  shutters  of  Monsieur  Nardi's  shop. 
As  he  looked,  it  spread  out  in  pale,  sickly  rays, 
growing  stronger  and  brighter  each  moment ;  then, 
like  spears  of  dull  gold,  they  darted  out  from  every 
tiny  crack  and  opening,  —  above,  below,  all  around. 
There  must  be  a  brilliant  light  within  to  emit  such 
beams  through  the  small  chinks  of  those  closely 
fitting  shutters. 

In  an  instant  Marc  was  across  the  street  with 
his  eyes  pressed  close  to  the  crack  from  which  the 
largest  ray  proceeded,  but  he  could  distinguish  noth- 
ing save  a  bright,  glaring,  blinding  light,  as  though 
the  whole  interior  was  in  one  blaze. 

"It's  fire  —  fire!"  he  called.  His  voice  seemed 
choked  in  the  mist  and  darkness,  but  even  while 
he  shouted,   he   was  scaling  the  high   fence.     He 


iiaiiiBiiii 


,0 


212 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


knew,  when  once  within  the  yard,  that   he  coul 
awaken  Cressy  and  alarm  the  house. 

The   blinds  of  the  sitting-room  were  not  closei 
and  as  soon  as  his  feet  touched  the  brick  pavemei 
of   the    yard  he  saw  the  light   from   the   window 
and  through  the  muslin  curtain  he  also  saw  Mo 
sieur  Nardi  lying  back  in  his  chair,  —  ghastly  pa 
and   apparently  lifeless.     The  reading-lamp  burn^ 
on  the  table,  the  door  between  the  shop  and   t 
room  was  slightly  ajar,  and   the  baleful   glare  th 
shone   through  paled    the  light  of    the   lamp, 
dense  black  smoke  filled   the  room  and   hung  li 
a  cloud    over   Monsieur   Nardi's    pallid    face,  a 
already  the   odor  of  the  burning  books  could 
detected,  — that    sickening,   stifling  odor  of    bui 
leather  and  paper. 

With  one  rapid  glance,  the  boy  took  in  the  sit 

tion.     Springing  on  to  the  gallery  like  a  little  tig 

he  dashed  in  a  pane  of  glass  and  unbolted  the  v 

dow.     In  an  instant  the  horrible  smoke  met  s 

surrounded  him,  seeming  to  grasp  him  as  someth 

solid  and   tangible ;  it   repelled   and  buffeted   h 

seizing  him  by  the  throat  with  a  strangling  clu 

•    but  he  fought  against  it  with   fierce  strength 

courage  until  he  reached  the  side  of  the  unconsci 

old  man. 


»„At»«'i*MM^<Mrt-> 


.«MB«ti:-.- 


TTLE    VFOLINISTE. 

the  yard,  that   he  could 
1  the  house. 

ting-room  were  not  closed, 
)uched  the  brick  pavement 
5  light  from   the   window, 

curtain  he  also  saw  Mon- 
in  his  chair,  —  ghastly  pale 

The  reading-lamp  burned 
between  the  shop  and  the 
and  the  baleful  glare  that 
he  light  of  the  lamp.  A 
I  the  room  and  hung  like 
•  Nardi's  pallid  face,  and 
le  burning  books  could  be 
ing,  stifling  odor  of    burnt 

e,  the  boy  took  in  the  situa- 
he  gallery  like  a  little  tiger, 

glass  and  unbolted  the  win- 
le  horrible  smoke  met  and 
g  to  grasp  him  as  something 

repelled  and  buffeted  him, 
3at  with  a  strangling  clutch, 

it  with  fierce  strength  and 
d  the  side  of  the  unconscious 


IN  DANGER. 


-^13 


There  was  not  a  moment  to  lose.  A  superhuman 
power  seemed  to  be  given  him.  Grasping  the  inert 
form  with  fingers  which  felt  l-ke  steel,  he  pulled 
liira  from  his  chair  and  dragged  him  through  the 
window,  out  of  the  smoke,  out  of  the  very  jaws 
of  death,  on  to  the  gallery,  where  the  cool  night  air 
swept  over  him  with  life-giving  freshness. 

Then  he  flew  to  Cressy's  door  and  aroused 
her  with  violent  blows  and  cries.  She  heard  him, 
and  called  in  a  terrified  voice,  "What  has  hap- 
pened ?  " 

Had  not  Marc  known  the  place  so  intimately,  he 
could  never  have  accomplished  what  he  did.  He 
was  aware  that  a  bucket,  always  full  of  water,  to 
be  used  in  an  emergency,  stood  under  the  faucet 
of  the  cistern.  The  cistern  was  close  beside  the 
gallery,  therefore  it  was  only  a  few  steps  to  the 
burning  books. 

Leaving  Monsieur  Nardi  to  recover  in  the  fresh 
air,  he  plunged  into  the  shop  with  the  bucket  of 
water,  splashing  and  dashing  it  against  the  rows 
of  burning  books:  They  had  been  smouldering  for 
some  time  before  they  blazed,  which  accounted  for 
the  density  of  smoke.  By  the  time  Marc  had  re- 
turned with   his   second    bucket   of   water,  Cressy 


\i 


214 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


had  come  to  his  aid,  and   together   they   saturated 
the  bookshelves  until  the  flames  were   subdued. 

Then  Marc  and  Cressy,  almost  at  their  last  gasp 
from  the  smoke,  threw  the  doors  wide  open,  and 
a  current  of  cool  air  soon  relieved  them  from 
suffocation. 

Not  until  Marc  had  torn  the  burning  books  out 
of  the  shelves  and  thoroughly  drenched  them  with 
water,  did  he  go  to  Monsieur  Nardi's  relief.  Cressy 
was  already  administering  to  his  needs.  She  had 
placed  a  pillow  under  his  head,  and  wet  his  nostrils 
with  spirits  of  ammonia,  while  she  slapped  and 
rubbed   his  limp  hands   vigorously. 

After  a  few  minutes,  his  chest  rose  and  fell 
slightly  with  the  labored  breath,  and  with  a 
shuddering  gasp  he  opened  .his  eyes  and  looked 
around  him  wildly;  he  was  safe,  but  he  was  not 
fully  conscious. 

It  was  not  until  Monsieur  Nardi  had  recovered 
his  faculties,  and  began  to  understand  that  some- 
thing unusual  had  happened,  that  Marc  realized 
how  badly  he  was  burned.  His  scorched  hair  and 
blistered  hands  and  face  showed  that  he  had  been 
through  a  terrible  ordeal  of  fire. 


E    VIOLINISTE. 

gether  they   saturated 
mes  were   subdued, 
(lost  at  their  last  gasp 
doors   wide   open,  and 
relieved    them    from 

the  burning  books  out 
[y  drenched  them  with 
•  Nardi's  relief.    Cressy 

0  his  needs.  She  had 
ad,  and  wet  his  nostrils 
irhile  she  slapped  and 
orously. 

is  chest  rose  and  fell 
breath,    and    with    a 

1  .his  eyes  and  looked 
}  safe,  but  he  was  not 

r  Nardi  had  recovered 
understand  that  some- 

ed,  that  Marc  realized 
His  scorched  hair  and 

owed  that  he  had  been 

E  fire. 


.1 


XXVII. 


A   LITTLE   HERO. 


TT  is  only  doing  Marc  justice  to  say  that  at  first 
he  did  not  know,  and  perhaps  never  fully 
understood,  how  he,  by  his  heroic  courage  and 
promptitude,  had  saved  not  only  Monsieur  Nardi's 
life,  and  probably  Cressy 's,  but  all  of  the  most 
valuable  books  in  the  collection  of  the  old  hou- 
quiniste. 

The  harmless-looking  candle  that  had  been  left 
in  the  shop  in  a  moment  of  preoccupation,  had 
burned  the  edge  of  the  shelf  above  it,  and  in  this 
way  communicated  the  fire  to  the  under  part  of 
the  row  of  books,  where  it  must  have  smouldered 
for  some  time  before  Marc  saw  the  blaze  through 
the  chinks  of  the  shutters.  Fortunately  the  fire 
occurred  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  shop  from 
where  stood  the  glass  case  that  contained  the 
antiques,  and  in  fact  all  of  the  really  valuable 
volumes;  therefore  they  were  injured  neither  by 
fire,  smoke,  nor  water. 

ais 


iMtuftiin 


lljK^.%.-  an  IM>-4F-mli6A.<* 


2l6 


SEKAPII,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


It  was  some  time  before  Monsieur  Nardi  was 
sufficiently  recovered  to  understand  the  full  extent 
of  the  accident.  The  first  person  he  recognized  was 
Marc,  who  was  anxiously  bending  over  him,  and 
confused  and  bewildered  as  he  was,  he  showed  no 
surprise  at  seeing  him ;  but  he  noticed  at  once  how 
terribly  the  boy  was  burned,  and  his  distress  was 
so  great  that  he  did  not  think  either  of  his  own 
condition  nor  of  his   losses. 

Cressy  had  escaped  with  very  slight  injuries,  and 
her  first  proceeding,  when  she  saw  her  master 
recovering,  was  to  run  to  the  next  yard,  awake 
Romeo,  and  despatch  him  for  a  doctor.  And  it 
was  not  until  Marc's  burns  were  dressed,  and  he 
was  in  bed  sleeping  quietly  mider  the  effect  of 
an  opiate,  that  the  poor  old  gentleman  began  to 
collect  his  thoughts,  and  to  wonder  where  the  boy 
came  from,  and  how  it  happened  that  he  had  ap- 
peared on  the  scene  at  such  an  opportune  moment. 

Then  he  remembered  the  white  ship  that  he  had 
watched  the  preceding  evening.  "I  felt  that  he 
was  aboard  of  her,"  he  said  to  Cressy,  while  tears 
of  thankfulness  filled  his  eyes.  "Xe  Un  Dm 
sent  him  to  save  us.  We  owe  him  our  lives; 
ne^t    ce  ^j«s,   ma    bonne?      And    we    must    show 


,^.wwiA>,i»i<T»ji|n'wi 


n  waworiiaiMiiHW 


VIOLINISTE. 

Monsieur  Nardi  was 
stand  the  full  extent 
on  he  recognized  was 
iding  over  him,  and 
!  was,  he  showed  no 
noticed  at  once  how 
md  his  distress  was 
k  either  of  his  own 

•y  slight  injuries,  and 
lie  saw  her  master 
le  next  yard,  awake 
r  a  doctor.  And  it 
rtrere  dressed,  and  he 
under  the  effect  of 
gentleman  began  to 
^onder  where  the  boy 
jned  that  he  had  ap- 
n  opportune  moment, 
hite  ship  that  he  had 
ng.  "I  felt  that  he 
to  Cressy,  while  tears 


A  UTTLE  HERO, 


217 


y^es. 


he  bon    Dim 


owe   him   our   lives ; 
A.nd    we    must    show 


our  gratitude  by  doing  everything  to   make  him 
happy." 

"  Yes,  monsieur,"  said  Cressy,  humbly.  "  We  owe 
liiin  a  great  deal,  and  I  can  never  forgive  myself 
for  my  suspicions.  You  shall  see  that  from  this 
day  I  will  be  a  mother  to  him." 

The  first  visit  in  the  morning  was  from  Seraph, 
who  came  at  a  very  early  hour.  She  had  heard 
from  Romeo  of  Marc's  return,  and  of  the  terrible 
accident,  and  hastened  to  offer  her  childish  con- 
dolence. Monsieur  Nardi  took  her  for  a  moment 
to  Marc's  room :  "  Just  for  a  moment,  ma  petite, 
because  the  poor  boy  is  suffering  and  must  be 
kept  very  quiet." 

When  Seraph  saw  Marc,  with  his  face  and  hands 
bandaged,  and  his  hair  quite  gone  in  places,  she 
could  scarcely  repress  her  sobs.  After  a  few 
whispered  words  of  sorrow,  she  pressed  a  tearful 
kiss  on  his  smarting  forehead,  and  slipped  quietly 
out  to  talk  it  all  over  with  Uncle  'Nidas,  and  to 
wonder,  as  he  did,  how  Marc  had  happened  there 
just  at  the  right  moment. 

"  We  must  wait,  ma  chlre,  until  he  is  better ;  then 
he  will  explain  everything.  In  the  meantime  we 
must  thank  le  bon  Dieu  for  sending  him   to  save 


wmkmk 


■■■••■■■W"!^ 


S^' 


2i8  SEKAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLIN ISTE. 

my  life ;  for  had  he  not  come  when  he  did  I  should 
have  been  buried  under  the  ruins  of  my  burning 
house.  The  deadly  smoke  suffocated  me  while  I 
was  sleeping ;   1  was  unconscious  and   would  have 

known  nothing." 

At  this  frightful  picture  Seraph  threw  her  arms 
around  her  old  friend's  neck,  and  they  wept  together. 
Long  before  Marc  was  well  every  trace  of  the 
fire  had  disappeared  from  the  little  shop.  The 
burned  iVdm.  was  removed,  and  new  shelves  were 
built  and  tilled  with  new  books,  all  of  which  the 
insurance  company  paid  for. 

Monsieur    Nardi    was    a    man   of  business    and 
always    kept  his   property   well   insured,  therefore 
he   suffered  no   actual  loss;    but  had  he   put   his 
candle  down  on  the  other  side  of  his  shop,  insur- 
ance   could    not    have    recompensed    hiin    for    the 
treasures  that  would  have  been  destroyed.     Marc  s 
heroism    in    extinguishing    the    fire,    and    all    his 
smarting  burns,  would  have  been  a  useless  sacrifice, 
as  there  were  a  few  famous  volumes  which  Monsieur 
Nardi  and  other    distinguished    bibliomaniacs    de- 
clared  to  be  without  a  duplicate  in  any  of    the 
known  collections. 

One  day  when   Marc  was  sufficiently  strong  to 


ri 


'lOUNlSTE. 

hen  he  did  I  should 
ins  of  my  burning 
tocated  me  while  I 
js  and   would  have 

aph  threw  her  arras 
i  they  wept  together, 
every  trace  of  the 
,e  little  shop.  The  , 
id  new  shelves  were 
ts,  all  of   which  the 

lan   of  business    and 
3II  insured,  therefore 
but  had  he  put   his 
e  of  his  shop,  insur- 
pensed    him    for    the 
jn  destroyed.     Marc's 
le    fire,    and    all    his 
jen  a  useless  sacrifice, 
(lumes  which  Monsieur 
ed    bibliomaniacs    de- 
>licate   in  any  of    the 

sufficiently  strong  to 


-4   L/TTLE  HEHO. 

,,7,  ""  "'  '""  ""Iventures,  and  how  it  happened 

.at  ho  wa,  „„  the  ,pot  when  the  fire  b,.ri 

Ifefore  th.s,  however,  Monsieur  Nardi  had  fo^dt' 

really    beheved    h™    g„ilty   of   the  act  that  had 
ansed  so  „„„h   „„happiness,  and    that    „  I    h! 

n::at.''r;'r""^"™<""^*«-p 

'uiew  ajso;    therefore  he  must   fhmi. 
that  unpleasant  episode.  ""  "^''^  '' 

"I'm  glad  Seraph   knowed   I  didn't  steal,"  was 
Marc  s  rejoinder,  " an'  now  I  wish  VA  v.      ul    . 
beads  from   P^l^nH         u  '^''"«''*  ^^^^ 

guess"  '   '^'  ^^^"'^  '^  *°«k   them,  I 

"  Taken  them,"  corrected  Monsieur  Nardi     «  You 
see,  won  cher  pnfnr^t   +1    ^  ^®" 

as  aoon  as  .It"!  ^'"'  --'  «»  'o  -"ooi 
^^^  These  are  Mare,  iitt.e  adve„t„.s  as  to.d    b, 

"Yes,  sir,  I'll  begin  at  that  night  I  run  awav 
<I,dn  t  want  to  go.    I  never  bad's „oh  a^  ft  Z 
;7  "*"  "'*'•  ^"h  g»»<l  togs,  plenty  to  eat  and  al 
the  story  books  I  could  read;  bu'  I  ^^."'.^ 

:ie  To  ri. '  ":™'^^'  ^™  -""'■"•'  ht™ 

lespec,  no  confience  in  me  an'  t  •,   , 

"  ™®»  an    1  was  riled  to 


$ 
% 

i 


IV  ^ 


it, 

'i''. 


3. 


„o         sE,Am  rm  uttle  v.oumsTB. 

think  you'd  s'pect  ■m  when  you  knowei  I  w«8 
ont'  when  Mr.  Patsy  told  you  I  wa»;  «>  that 
Znin  when  the  white  »tean,er  wanted  a  oabm 
Z  Mr  Patsy  'vised  me  to  dup,  'cause  the  steward 
Jdt'd  be  right  good  to  me,  an'  »™«  ™J.a.k ; 
an-  Mr,  Patsy  said  you'd  have  a  ehan»    » Jnd 

„„t  while  I  was  gone,  and  *™  y<""' -"t^;'™ 
„i„d-that's  why  1  went,  and  I  wa»  m  luck 

*':f:!:!t"o«  grub  a  single  day,  that  is  I  wasn't 
sea,  ck     The  work  wasn't  so  hard,  an'  the  cap  am 
Tt  me  -n.e  books-,  an'  the  old  tars  spun  lots 
.  'Un,,.  nirates    flyin'  Dutchmen,  an'  mare 

Ir^'^W  S.  enu«  .  make  your  hair 
:  'up ;  an'  they  let  me  listen,  'cause  they  k^wed 
„e;  all  them  old  tars  seen  me  runnm  bout  the 
"v^e,  an'  they  called  me  the  levee  k,d  stead  o£ 
the  wharf  rat.    It  sounded  more   spectable. 

> On  the  voyage  ont  I  had  a  fine  time;  but  when 

„e  Kot  in  Liverpool   I  found  out  the  wh.t«  sh.p 
we  8°^  ™  .        '^  ,  shinned  on  a  three-master, 

wasn't  comm'  back,  so  I  shippea  on 
a  sailin'-vessel  bound  for  Calcutta.      An    I  wasnt 
:;:!  boy,  1  was  the  cook's  boy.  there swhe. 

the  hard  knocks  come  in.    I  was  always  m    ve^ 
body's  way,  an'  when  they  wanted  me  to  get  out. 


p.M^imy.ijuKiHtiftliii'"  WW 


UNISTE. 

I  knowed  I  was 
y  I  was;  so  that 
r  wanted  a  cabin 
cause  the  steward 
i'  bring  me  back; 
a  chance  to  find 
rou'd  — well,  never 
I  was  in  luck  for 

ly,  that  is,  I  wasn't 
,rd,  an'  the  cap'ain 
old  tars  spun  lots 
lutchmen,  an'  mare 
io  make  your  hair 
'cause  they  knowed 
J  runnin'  'bout  the 
levee  kid  'stead  of 
re  'spectable. 
fine  time ;  but  when 
out  the  white  ship 
jd  on  a  three-master, 
utta.      An'  I  wasn't 
»  boy ;  there's  where 
was  always  in  every- 
,nted  me  to  get  out, 


A  LITTLE  HERO. 


931 


they  just  banged  me  over  the  head  or  kicked  me ; 
but  I  had  plenty  o'  sand.  I  didn't  whimper,  an' 
when  they  saw  I  wasn't  no  land-lubber  they  left 
off  a-teasin'   me. 

''  On  the  voyage  back  I  was  took  with  the  ship- 
fever,  an'  I  don't  know  how  long  I  was  laid  up. 
When  we  got  in  Liverpool  I  was  so  weak  I  couldn't 
crawl  out  o'  my  bunk,  so  they  sent  me  to  the 
horsepital;  there  I  had  mighty  good  livin',  a  soft 
bed  an'  a  nurse ;  she  was  al'ays  a-doin'  something 
to  make  me  feel  better.  An'  sometimes  she  read 
to  me  out  of  a  book,  all  about  Daniel  an'  the  lions, 
an'  Joseph's  coat,  an'  a  man  nailed  to  a  cross,  for 
the  sins  of  the  world,  she  said.  They  were  fine 
stories— I  liked  'em,  an'  I'll  never  forget  them. 

"One  mornin'  I  was  well  an'  they  turned  me 
out.  The  nurse  gave  me  a  shillin',  an'  that  book 
she  read  out  of.  It's  named  Holy  Bible.  I  left 
it  in  my  bunk  that  night  I  come  ashore,  and  I 
s'pose  it's  lost.  When  I  got  out  the  horsepital,  I 
had  nowhere  to  go,  so  I  started  for  the  docks,  an' 
the  first  thing  I  see  layin'  off  in  the  river  ready  to 
start,  was  the  white  steamer.  An'  while  I  was 
lookin'  an'  wishin'  I  was  aboard  of  her,  down 
come  the  steward  an'  some  o'  the  men.    The  launch 


■3 


:s\ 


222  SKKAm    THE  LITTLE    VIOUNISTE. 

was  a-waitin'  for  'em,  an'  the   minit  they  see  me 
they  all  hollered,  *  Why,  there's  the  little  levee  kid! 
So  they  took  me  off  to  the  ship,  an'  I  worked  my 

passage  home.  ,      u    *    t 

« That  night  when  I  got  ashore  in  the  boat,  1 
looked  all  'round  for  Mr.  Patsy,  but  I  couldn't  find 
him,  so  1  just  run  up  here  to  see  the  old  place.     I 
'spected  to  go  away  again,  an'  I  wanted- well,  I- 
—  well  — I  didn't  see  no  one  it  was  so  late  an   all 
the  houses  was  shut  up.     So  I  set  down  in  a  door 
opposite  to  rest,  an'  maybe  I  went  to  sleep,  it  was 
so  dark  an'  quiet.     Then  all  of  a  sudden  I  seen  the 
light    shine    out    atween    the   shutters,  an'   I   run 
across  an'  there  was  the  fire.     I  yelled  'fire,'  but 
nobody  heard.     Then  I  jumped  the  fence,  an  woke 
Cressy,  an'  Cressy  an'  me,  we  put  it  out.    I  couldn  t 
'a  got  it  out  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Cressy's  helpin  . 
That's  how  I  happened  to  be  on  the  spot  m  the 
nick  o'  time,  'cause  I  couldn't  help  it,  that's  all. 


»<^ 


'lOUNrSTE, 

minit  they  see  me 
the  little  levee  kid!' 
ip,  an'  I  worked  my 

hore  in  the  boat,  I 
,  but  I  couldn't  find 
«e  the  old  place.     I 
:  wanted  —  well,  I  — 
it  was  so  late  an'  all 
set  down  in  a  door 
went  to  sleep,  it  was 
a  sudden  I  seen  the 
shutters,  an'   I   run 
,     I  yelled  'fire,'  but 
d  the  fence,  an'  woke 
)ut  it  out.    I  couldn't 
1  for  Cressy's  helpin'. 
B  on  the  spot  in  the 
't  help  it,  that's  all." 


XXVIII. 

J-  » 

•  '  AT  MADAME   ST.   MAXENT's. 

TT  was  some  time  before  the  bums  on  Marc's 
face  and  hands  were  entirely  healed,  and  even 
after  they  were  quite  well,  the  ugly  red  scars  were  a 
constant  reminder  to  Monsieur  Nardi  that  the  boy 
liad  risked  his  life  to  save  him  and  hi.s  property, 
and  never  a  young  hero  was  more  praised  and 
applauded  than  he.  Patsy  the  watchman,  Cressy, 
and  Romeo  almost  disputed  for  the  honor  of  serving 
iiini,  and  Uncle  'Nidas  and  Seraph  vied  with  each 
other  in  their  numerous  attentions. 

Even  Madame  St.  Maxent  visited  his  little  room 
to  express  her  admiration  for  his  courage  and 
prompt  action  in  saving  the  life  of  her  valued 
friend.  And  when  he  was  able  to  go  out  she  took 
him  in  her  carriage  with  Louise  and  Seraph,  to 
drive  in  the  countiy,  or  through  the  quiet,  shady 
parks,  where  they  loitered  under  the  great  oaks, 
drinking  in  delicious  draughts  of  fresh,  pure  air, 
which  gave  new  strength  and  life  to  the  child's 

223 


^ 


224  sEKAPH,  riiE  urn.F.  vwuniste, 

feeble,  .hrunkcm  fnune,  and  brought  back  the  color 

to  his  pallid  face. 

Son.eti.nos   they  drove  to  the  West  End,  when, 
Madame  St.  Maxent  would  order  a  delicious  lunch 
of  fresh  fruits  and  ices,  served  in  one  of  the  pav.  - 
ions    overlooking    the    lovely    lake.     Then    Seraph 
and  Marc  wo.ild  wander  through  the  w»lks  amo..j,' 
the   trees   and   flowers,  peeping   into   the   grottoes, 
and    hurrying,   breathlessly,   with    much    laugliter, 
through   the    intricacies   of   the   maze,  from   whicl. 
they  would  en.erge  as  elated  as  though  they  had 
accomplished    some    remarkable    feat.     After    they 
had  visited  all  the  shows,  they  would  return  home 
by  the  beautiful  shell  road,  light-hearted  and  hap- 
pier for  their  day's  outing. 

To  Marc,  who  had  been  so  cruelly  buffeted  by 
misfortune,  these  luxuries  and  pleasures  were  like 
glimpses  of  paradise.  And  in  comparison  the 
memory  of  those  dreadful  days  on  the  East  India 
ship,  the  fever,  the  dark  noisome  bunk  where  he 
lay  suffering  and  neglected,  were  like  a  horrible 
nightmare,  and  the  contrast  made  him  so  grateful 
and   happy   that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  do  him  a 

kindness.  .  ,         .  * 

*'  Bring  the  little  hero  and  Seraph  to  tea  next 


.1 

\ 


ii.iV>iS?j)H 


<■:    VWI.INtSTE. 

jrought  back  the  color 

the  Wost  End,  when; 
Drtler  a  delicious  lunch 
3d  in  one  of  the  pavil- 
y    lake.     Then    Seraph 
ough  the  walks  aniong 
)ing   into   the   grottoes, 
with    much    laughter, 
the   maze,  from   whicli 
ed  as  though  they  hail 
able    feat.     After    they 
ihey  would  return  home 
,  light-hearted  and  hap- 

\  so  cruelly  buffeted  by 
and  pleasures  were  like 
nd  in  comparison,  the 
days  on  the  East  India 
noisome  bunk  where  he 
'd,  were  like  a  horrible 
,st  made  him  so  grateful 
t  pleasure  to  do  him  a 

and  Seraph  to  tea  next 


AT  MADAME  ST.   MAXF.XT'S. 


225 


Saturday,"   naid   Madame   St.  Maxent  to  Monsieur 
Nardi,   one   morning   when    he   was   in    the    shop. 
"Maurice   wants  to  see   him.     Kxcu-so   a   mother's 
vanity,  but  I  begin  to   think   that    Maurice   ha.s  a 
fine  ciiaracter;  he  admires  bravery,  and  the  courage 
of  the   little   fellow   delighted   him.     Yesterday  he 
surprised  me  by  saying  that  he  did  not  wish  to  go 
to  college.     His  tutor  says  that  he  will  never  dis- 
tinguish    himself    in    the    humanities.     Ho    really 
does  not  like  to  study,  yet  he  seldom   fails  in  his 
lessons,  because  he  is  conscientious   and  ambitious, 
and   he   works   very  hard   for   what   lie  gets.     He 
loves    music  and   art,   he   has    quite   a  talent  for 
drawing;  but  his  preference  is  for  architecture.     He 
tells    me  be   would    like  to    be  an   architect  and 
builder.     I  do    not    encourage    him   in   that   idea. 
With   his  fortune  there   is  no  need  of   his  going 
into  business,  and  I  shall   not  urge  him   to   take 
a  collegiate  course  unless  he  wishes  to  do  so. 

"What  is  the  use  of  a  boy  spending  four  or 
five  years  in  honest  or  dishonest  efforts  to  have 
the  stamp  of  a  university  when  he  has  no  apti- 
tude for  letters  ?  H  he  wishes,  he  can  travel  with 
a  tutor,  and  gain  his  education  by  studying  the 
world  and  his  fellow-creatures.     That  will  broaden 


„5  SEJ!^Pff.    THE  UTTLE    VIOUNISTB. 

hun,  and  develop  what  U  best  in  him.  He  loves 
Nature  and  I  wish  him  to  live  near  to  her.  A 
^; Tto  understands  and  loves  Nature  cannot  be 

Txhen    he    has  what    I    consider    another   fine 
trait  of  character-he  loves  animals.    And  I  hold    ^ 
ltonewholovesandish™l^dt.mb— es 

must  have  a  good  heart.     I  do  not  w.sn 
or  curb  any  of  his  reasonable  des.es;  I  only  w  h 
to  cultivate  what  is  best  in  him.     1  do  not  mean 
:    ay  that  he  is  perfect,  but  his  faults  are  all^on 
the  side  of  thoughtless  generosity.    As  h    grow 
*L  he  will  be  wiser,  and  I  trust  he  wrll  make 

a  fine  man.  .     ,  , 

"Excuse  a  mothers  weakness,  mon  ««•    I  know 
I  talk  too  much  about  my  son;  but  you  see  I  am 
iUe  a  hen  with  one  chick,  and  I  make  as  much 
t:  over  my  one   as  other  mothers  wou  d  over 
dozen.    Mai.,  e»  >,  *r  am,  brmg    h     chdten 
Saturday.      We    will    have    t.a    .«    ^e    ga"*  . 
Seraph   and   Maurice  can  play  a  duet,  and  1  w* 
show  you  the  improvements  I  have   made  m  my 

"Tri  never  looked  prettier  than  on  that  Satu^ 
day,  when  she  went  to  take  .«a  with  Madame  St 


illMCTilwvmww"™ 


VrOLlNISTE. 

jt  in  him.  He  loves 
live  near  to  her.  A 
ires  Nature   cannot  be 

consider    another    fine 
animals.     And  I  hold 
ind  to  dumb  creatures 
do  not  wish  to  thwart 
le  desires;  I  only  wish 
him.     T  do   not   mean 
lit  his  faults  are  all  on 
lerosity.     As  he  grows 
i  I  trust  he  will  make 

mess,  mon  ami.    I  know 
son;  but  you  see  I  am 
:,  and  I  make   as  much 
f  mothers  would  over  a 
ami,  bring   the  children 
re    tea    in     the     garden, 
play  a  duet,  and  I  will 
nts  I  have   made   in  my 

jttier  than  on  that  Satur- 
ike  tea  with  Madame  St. 


^T  MADAME  ST.    M.tXFXT'S 

^.  227 

fcxent.    Since  her  mother  earned  such  a  nice  liUle 

'      ,T  ^  '""  '"'''•'  "''i*  her  mother  had 

brushed  u„t„  it  shone  lilce  threads  of  gold " 
■»  «p.te  of  his  sears,  which   were  daifv  t 

rnTriir^citthttfr^^""^-'""- 

ui  i^drai  telt  that  he  had  every  reason 
to  be  proud  of  his  two  little  protigl,.        '         " 
When     they    arrived     Maw, 

violin,  the,  L  adii  J;;  z'lz  ^r'' 

whose  broad   exDan,P  nf  r  ,  *ootman, 

»ere  only  rivlued   bv  i     T  '"'  *"'   ''~"'«'°*'' 
'v  "vaued    by  the  gloss   of  his   skin    ^.r,^ 

conducted     very    ceremoniously    to    th      Zml 
garden,  where,  under  a  spreading  orange  t  r  w^ 

a  mound    f  1    ""'"'  '"  "  ''"'"  ^''^  ''-''  -- 
a  mound  of  the  same  fragrant  blossoms.    The  sun 

peeped  through  the  branches,  and  glintin/™  7 

tea-kettle  of  „^«„,e'  silver,  m«.e  thf    ,  L  ,1 1' 

and  chma  sparkle  like  jewels.  * 


tt 


■-J 


„8  SESAPH.   THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

Madame  St.  Maxent  wore  a  ro»e  ^^"^  "^f^. 
Against  the  dark  green  of  the  fohage  she  lookM 
r,We  a  lovely  Watteau.  And  Maurice  was  as  ha^- 
some  as  a  young  lord,  in  a  «,!.!/«  su,t  of  the 
latest  mode,  his  dark  curly  head  bare  and  the 
ends  of  his  blue  scarf  fluttering  m  the  breeK. 

When  they  were  seated  at  the  Uble,  they  were 
a  merry  little  group;  for  notwithstanding  the  un- 
accustomed elegance,  the  children  were    qmte   a 
their    ease.     They    were    happy,    -dyo"^''    ^^ 
„appiness  can  never  be  stiff  and   -kwarf.    T>^ 

servant  brought  fruits  and  '-;-  "'^^di 
while  Madame  St.  Maxent  and  Mons  eur  Nard, 
:  ped  their  tea  and  nibbled  their  "W 
up    a    charming    conversation,    simple    and    l«ht 

pnoutrh  for  all  to  enjoy.  ,      .      .    u 

Aft  the  pleasant  meal  was  over,  Maur.ce  took 
Sets   aud    Marc  to  show  them  the  sU.ble,  h« 
"Zl  and  dogs,  and  his  other    pet    an^Os 
which  he  had  an  interesting  collection.    Then  they 
:«  dered  about  the  garden,  and  over  the  lawn 
They  saw  the  fountains  full  of  gold  and  sdver  fish 
S  and  Marc  went  into  ecstasies  over  some 
^„   funny  Japanese  fish,  with  iridescent  scales 
::/  two  Lion's  wiggling  Uils.    And  there  were 


(NISTE. 

e  silk  tea-gown, 
liage  she  looked 
ice  was  as  hand- 
digi  suit  of  the 
1  bare,  and  the 
ti  the  breeze. 

table,  they  were 
istanding  the  un- 
n  were    quite    at 

and  youth  and 
1  awkward.    The 

for  the  children, 
i  Monsieur  Nardi 
ir  biscuit,  keeping 
simple    and    light 

)ver,  Maurice  took 
jm  the  stable,  his 
r    pet    animals,  of 
lection.    Then  they 
id  over  the  lawn; 
rold  and  silver  fish ; 
jcstasies  over  some 
,h  iridescent  scales, 
3.    And  there  were 


AT  MADAME  ST.   MAXENT'S 

229 

that   the   y.oh„,  were  bn,„ght  out,  and  Maurice 
and    Seraph,    wit,    th^ir   young    head,    ^1^^ 

turned,  and  twMted,   and    tuned    their   respective 
instrument,  into  accord  for  the  duet 

While   the  children  wen,  interesting  and  araus- 
Z^tT'-:  '''  «'-P-nage'„f  „«:::, 

Ictin"    the  ""'  """'■''"  ''''««  --  i»- 

^pecting  the  .mprovements  in  the  library,  enea<red 

'"  ^  '"y  '-™'''  ""-1  no  doubt  instru  tivTL 

"~  "f  '^'^  f— ite  object, -old  book,   I 
,;oara  old  books.  J     '         «  dooks,  tou- 

Presently  they  ca,..e  „„t  to  their  seats  under  the 
orange  tree.    The  n.usicstands  were  p„t  i„" 
7-  --Se";  and  Seraph  and  mLcc  ^^J^ 
one   of  Schumann's   charming   duets.    And  while 
they  played,   the  ™ys  of   the  setting   sun   lep 
across  the  lawn  and  lingered  where  the  ZtZft 
the  orange  flowers  fell  on  the  grass,  as  wht  and 
noiseless  as  flakes  of  snow. 
A  little  breeze  just  touched  the  sweet  olive  and 

2   whir""'  u'"  """"""^  '"'»  P«*'">«1  oen- 
sers,  whde  a  mock.ng-bin)  hanging  on  the  twig  of 


w 


'ill' 


230  SH/iAr//.    TJ/E  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

a  red-bud  tree,  twittered  faintly  and  sweetly  until 
the  last  notes  of   the  duet  died  away  on  the  soft 
air,  and  then,  whether  intoxicated  with  the  music, 
or  in  a  spirit  of  rivalry,  it  poured  out  strain  after 
strain   of  the   most  delicious  melody,  spreadmg  its 
wings,  and  fluttering  from  branch  to  branch  while 
it  Ig  on  deliriously   and  wildly,  until   the   sun 
had  fairly  set,  the  happy  children  had  turned  their 
faces    homeward,    and    darkness    and    silence    had 
settled   down   on  Madame   St.   Maxent's  beautiful 
garden. 


WISTE. 

a  sweetly  until 
ay  on  the  soft 
with  the  music, 
out  strain  after 
[y,  spreading  its 
to  branch  while 
,  nntil  the   sun 
lad  turned  their 
md    silence    had 
ixent's  beautiful 


XXIX. 


THE    REVOLT   OF   MADGE. 


IV/rONSIEUR  NARDI  had  placed  Marc  at  a 
-^-^  small  private  school  on  Conti  Street,  where 
he  studied  so  well  and  made  such  excellent  prog- 
ress, that  the  teacher,  who  was  a  friend  of  the  old 
bookseller,  often  made  a  favorable  report. 

"  The  boy  drinks  in  knowledge  as  a  dry  plant 
drinks  in  rain,"  he  said.  "  He  loves  to  study,  and 
he  has  a  retentive  memory ;  he  will  make  rapid 
strides,  and  will  soon  be  of  great  assistance  to  you. 
The  most  serious  difficulty  I  have  is  in  correcting 
his  faults  of  speech.  It  is  not  easy  to  overcome 
the  habit  of  a  lifetime." 

"Be  patient  with  the  child,  mon  ami"  said 
Monsieur  Nardi  gently.  "Remember  that  he  has 
never  been  taught.  He  has  grown  up  as  neg- 
lected as  a  weed  springing  by  the  road  side.  We 
cannot  expect  him  to  blossom  at  once  into  a  rare 
flower.  I  am  sure  he  has  the  gifts  and  graces  of 
an  uncommonly  fine  character.  Have  patience,  and 
we  shall  see.     We  shall  see." 

831 


V: 


fl 


II 


232 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE  VIOLINISTE. 


While  Marc  was  fully  occupied  with  his  studies, 
and  while  Seraph  was  striving  after  greater  excel- 
lence in  her  music,  poor  little  Madge  seemed  to  be 
deteriorating.     She  did  not  progress  in  the  fashion- 
able school   as  her  mother  hoped   she   would  do; 
and  she  had  come  to  a  decided  standstill   in  her 
German,  while  her  piano  lessons  were  so  distaste- 
ful  that  she   resorted   to  all   sorts  of  subterfuges 
to  avoid  them.     Professor  Vortman  had  long  since 
told  Cousin  Franz  that  it  was  wasting  time  and 
money,  that  she  had  no  music  in  her,  and  would 
never  get  beyond  mediocrity.     The  only  progress 
she  made,  if  one  dare  call  it  progress,  was  in  her 
love  for    fine    clothes.      The   girls    in    her   school 
dressed  very  fashionably,  and    she    felt    that   she 
ought  to  do  as  they  did. 

One  day  she  came  to  visit  Seraph,  and  the  two 
little  maids  went  out  to  the  seat  under  the  ole- 
ander tree  for  a  confidential  chat. 

"Mamma  is  awfully  severe  and  so  stingy,"  said 
Madge  complainingly. 

"But  you  go  to  a  fashionable  school,  and  that 
costs  a  great  deal  of  money,"  returned  Seraph. 
"  My  mamma  can't  afford  to  send  me  to  school.  I 
have   to  study  with  her,  and  then  I  read  some 


UNISTE. 

with  his  studies, 
iter  greater  excel- 
dge  seemed  to  be 
jss  in  the  fashion- 
d   she   would   do; 
standstill   in  her 
were  so  distaste- 
rts  of  subterfuges 
lan  had  long  since 
wasting  time  and 
in  her,  and  would 
The  only  progress 
•ogress,  was  in  her 
iris    in    her   school 
she    felt    that   she 

jraph,  and  the  two 

seat  under  the  ole- 

at. 

nd  so  stingy,"  said 

lie  school,  and  that 

"   returned    Seraph. 

[id  me  to  school.     I 

then  I  read  some 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MADGE. 


233 


with  Uncle  'Nidas  and  Marc.  You  have  a  great 
deal  more  than  I  do,  Madge;  you  have  a  great 
many  new  frocks." 

"Yes,  woollen  and  gingham,"  continued  Madge 
discontentedly;  "but  I  want  a  silk  frock.  All 
the  girls  in  my  class  wear  silk  frocks  on  Sunday, 
and  some  wear  them  to  school." 

"  Mamma  does  not  allow  me  to  wear  a  silk  frock 
either,"  said  Seraph,  "and  I  don't  mind  it.  I 
really  don't  want  one." 

"You  would  if  you  went  to  my  school,"  replied 
Madge  decidedly.  "It's  very  unkind  of  mamma 
not  to  let  me  have  one." 

"But,  Madge,  don't  you  think  your  mamma 
knows  best  what  you  should  wear?"  asked  Seraph 
persuasively. 

"No,  I  don't!  Mamma  isn't  fashionable.  She 
doesn't  know  how  fashionable  people  dress,"  con- 
tinued Madge,  in  a  disrespectful  tone;  "besides,  I 
have  money  of  my  own.  My  papa  left  me  money, 
and  mamma  has  no  right  to  dress  me  like  a  child 
in  an  orphan  asylum.  The  girls  laugh  at  me,  and 
say  I  look  like  one  of  the  children  of  the  house 
of  the  Good  Shepherd." 

"Oh,  Madge,  they  must  be  very  rude  girls  to 


«»«««**»?sMi'« 


234 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


say  that.     I  should  not  mind  theni,"  said  Seraph, 
flushing.      "I'm    sure   you   always  look   neat  and 


nice 


«i 


"But  there's  no  style  in  just  looking  neat.  1 
want  flowers  and  feathers  in  my  hats.  I'm  tired 
of  only  ribbon,  and  1  mean  to  have  a  change," 
said  Madge,  with  calm  decision. 

"Why,  what  do  you  intend  to  do,  Madge?" 
asked  Seraph,  in  a  surprised  tone. 

"You  know  I  told  you  my  secret  about  the 
dolls'  hats,  and  you  never  told  any  one,  did  you?" 
"No,"  said  Seraph,  "I  never  did." 
"  Well,  now  I'll  tell  you  another,  because  I  can 
trust  you.  I've  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do. 
If  mamma  doesn't  buy  me  a  pink  and  white  checked 
silk  frock,  and  a  Leghorn  hat  with  a  wreath  of 
pink  roses,  I  mean  to  leave  home  and  learn  the 
millinery  trade." 

"Oh,  Madge!"  exclaimed  Seraph  horrified. 
«  Why,  of  course  I  shall.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I 
intended  to  have  a  shop  on  Rue  Boyale.  I  haven't 
changed  my  mind,"  continued  Madge,  quietly  but 
firmly;  "and  before  I  go  into  business  I  must  learn 
the  trade.  Then  I  shall  have  the  money  papa 
left  me,  and  open  a  shop." 


f/ISTE. 

I,"  said  Seraph, 
look   neat  and 

Qoking  neat.  T 
hats.  I'm  tired 
ave   a  change," 

,    do,    Madge?" 

ecret   about    the 
one,  did  you  ?  " 
d." 

r,  because  I  can 
nd  what  to  do. 
nd  white  checked 
ith  a  wreath  of 
e  and  learn  the 

)h  horrified. 
In't  I  tell  you  I 
oyale.  I  haven't 
adge,  quietly  but 
ness  I  must  learn 
the  money  papa 


Tf/F.   REVOLT  OF  MADGE. 


235 


"  But,  Madge,  you  are  too  young.  No  one  could 
go  into  business  at  your  age,"  said  Seraph  de- 
cidedly. 

"I'm  nearly  thirteen,  and  I've  got  to  learn  my 
trade  first.  You  know  that  modiste  on  Rue  Royale; 
the  largest,  prettiest  shop  is  the  one  I  mean.  Well,' 
she  takes  girls  no  older  than  I  am  and  teaches 
them  the  trade.  I've  inquired;  I  know  all  about 
it." 

"  Oh,  Madge,  don't  do  it.  I  wouldn't  if  I  were 
you,"  pleaded  Seraph. 

"There,  Seraph!  that's  just  like  a  girl.  Didn't 
you  promise  to  go  into  the  business  with  me? 
Weren't  we  to  have  a  shop  together?  and  now 
you're  going  back  on  your  word ! "  exclaimed 
Madge  hotly. 

"But  that  was  before  I  got  back  my  violin," 
replied  Seraph,  flushing  and  confused.  "I  can't 
go  with  you  now;   I  don't  want  a  shop  now." 

"  Because  you've  got  what  you  want.  If  I 
could  get  what  I  want,  I  wouldn't  have  a  shop 
either.  Why,  mamma  and  papa  are  even  threaten- 
ing  to  take  me  away  from  Madame  Claire's  school. 
I  want  to  learn  china  painting.  No,  I  want  to 
do  Kensington.     No,  I  want  to  take  Italian.    No, 


1 1 


!i^> 


»*w  n  iiKii  »^  ■M.ieriW.ir' 


236 


SEKAl'U,    THE  LITTLE    VWLLWISTE. 


1  want  a  pink  silk  frock  and  a  white  hat  with 
roses.  No,  no,  no,  I  m  tired  to  death  of  lectures, 
German,  and  darning;  and,  Seraph,  I  hate  the 
piano  worse  than  you  do." 

"Oh  dear,  Madge,  1  wish  you  wouldn't  feel  so. 
I  don't  know  how  to  help  you,"  said  Seraph,  her 
eyes  filling  with  tears;  "  1  wish  you  wouldn't  leave 
home,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  a  modixter 

"Well,   you'll  see,"  said  Madge  oracularly.     "If 
they  are   so   severe  with   me,   I   shall   have  to  do 
something.     I  can't  live   and   breathe  by  rule  any 
longer.     If  you  could   hear  the   girls  in  my  class 
tell  of  the  fun  they  have  at  home.     Paula  Lacostes' 
mamma  gave  her  a  real  party,  and  they  had  supper 
at  ten,  and  Marie  Doize  gave  a  lunch  her  birthday, 
just  like  a  grown-up  luncheon.     They  had  favors, 
and  everything,  and  Marie  wore  a  white  silk  frock 
that  her  mamma  ordered  from  Hortense.     Now,  did 
I  ever  have  a  party?    Did  I  ever  have  a  luncheon? 
And  our  house  is  just  horrid." 

« Oh,  Madge,  such  a  fine  large  house,  how  can 
you  say  that?"  cried  Seraph,  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  it's  large  enough,  and  as  dreary  as  a  con- 
vent. There  isn't  a  pretty  thing  in  it,  and  the 
garden   is  like  a  cemetery  with  those  shell  walks 


JLINISTE. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MADGE. 


237 


1   white   hat   with 

death  of  lectures, 

sraph,    I    hate   tlie 

I  woiildn't   feel  so. 
'    said    Seraph,  her 
jrou  wouldn't  leave 
I,  modiste." 
ge  oracularly.     "  If 

shall  have  to  do 
reathe  hy  rule  any 
1  girls  in  my  class 
e.  Paula  Lacostes' 
,nd  they  had  supper 
lunch  her  birthday, 
They  had  favors, 

a  white  silk  frock 
3ortense.  Now,  did 
er  have  a  luncheon  ? 

'ge  house,  how  can 
n  astonishment, 
as  dreary  as  a  con- 
ling  in   it,  and   the 
h  those  shell  walks 


and  stiff  clipped  trees.  Oh,  I  hate  it!  I  feel  as 
though  I  was  in  prison.  I  want  some  freedom, 
and  I  want  to  see  something  pretty." 

Seraph  was  silenced  by  such  strong  arguments, 
but  she  wjw  not  convinced  that  the  step  Madge 
contemplated  taking  was  at  all  right.  Yet  she 
felt  dimly  that  there  was  fault  somewhere,  that 
some  one  was  to  blame  for  the  barrenness  of  the 
child's  life.  She  had  always  been  a  patient,  docile 
little  creature.  What  had  so  changed  her?  What 
had  cau.sed  the  worm  to  turn? 

Seraph  thought  a  great  deal  about  Madge  for 
several  days  after  the  visit ;  but  as  the  communica- 
tion was  a  secret  of  the  most  inviolable  character, 
she  could  not  speak  of  her  fears  and  anxieties  to 
her  mother.  Young  as  she  was,  she  understood 
something  of  human  nature,  and  she  felt  that 
Madge  was  a  quietly  stubborn  little  person,  who, 
when  once  she  made  up  her  mind  to  do  a  thing, 
would  persevere  in  spite  of  consequences. 

Therefore  Seraph  was  not  surprised  when,  one 
morning,  Cousin  Franz  entered  with  a  very  dis- 
turbed manner,  and  a  face  more  serious  than 
usual,  and  before  they  had  fairly  exchanged  the 
accustomed  greetings,  exclaimed  excitedly,  "  Louise, 


mmammmati.,.^^. 


fV^^ 


238 


sj:a.i/'//,  nil:  unit,  viousisrt. 


Seraph,  l.avi-  you  seen  Madge?     Has  she  been  here 

this  mornuig?" 

Of  course  Madame  BUuncnthal  was  greatly 
allocked  and  surprised  when  she  heard  what  had 
happened,  but  Seraph  surmised  what  was  coming, 
iind  she  kept  lier  own  counsel. 

''Madge  lias  been  very  — very  — I  might  say  re- 
fractory," began  Cousin  Franz  hesitatingly.  *'  For 
some  time  she  has  seemed  to  be  inclined  to  revolt 
against  o,ir  authority,  but  the  serious  trouble 
began  when  we  removed  her,  a  few  days  ago, 
from  Madame  Claire's  school.  1  never  approved  of 
her  being  sent  there.  It  was  entirely  her  mother's 
idea.  All  our  trouble  dates  from  that.  The  in- 
fluence was  very  harmful ;  she  received  impressions 
of  life  totally  at  variance  with  my  teaching. 

«  Yesterday  her  mother  refused  to  purchase  her 
certain  unbecoming  articles  of  dress,  and  she  was 
rebellious  and  disrespectful,  and  I  might  say  she 
revolted  against  her  mother's  authority,  and  threat- 
ened to  leave  home.  Of  course  we  thought  this 
idle  talk  until  this  morning,  when  she  did  not  ap- 
pear at  breakfast.  Then  we  made  inquiries  and 
learned  that  she  had  left  the  house  at  an  early 
hour. 


)U, visit. 

Has  she  been  here 

thai  was  greatly 
B  heard  what  had 
what  was  coming, 

—  I  might  say  re- 
[lesitatingly.  *'  For 
5  inclined  to  revolt 
le     serious    trouble 

a  few  days  ago, 
I  never  approved  of 
itiroly  her  mother's 
roin  that.  The  in- 
received  impressions 

my  teaching, 
led  to  purchase  her 
dress,  and  she  was 
i  I  might  say  she 
uthority,  and  threat- 
se  we  thought  this 
hen  she  did  not  ap- 

made   inquiries  and 
,  house  at  an  early 


THE  REVOLT  OF  MADGE. 


239 


"This  letter  was  found  pinned  on  her  pillow." 
And  Cousin  Fran/  laid  a  crumpled  .sheet  of  paper 
before  Louise,  who  smiled  as  she  read  it,  in  spite 
of  the  gravity  of  the  occasion, 

Dkar  Mamma,  — If  I  cnii't  ro  to  Mfulaino  Clair's  8ch»K)l, and 
if  I  can't  have  that,  pink  oliek  Hilk  and  thiit  wite  legorn  hat,  I 
am  goin  away  furever.  Vuu  needn't  sunli  for  nio ;  from  tliiH 
time  I  am  berried  to  you  j\iHt  as  if  I  was  dead  and  in  my  graiv. 
I  am  goin  to  take  the  money  in  my  mishunery  i)ox,  and  my  new 
shoes.  VTour  dutiful  daughter, 

Madge. 


llillliHIBlllWJfWMi'^ 


XXX. 

FOUND. 

"  -\rOU  see  how  difficult  it  is  for  me  to  act  in 
X  this  matter,"  said  Cousin  Franz,  aft^r 
Louise  had  read  Madge's  letter,  "for  the  reason 
that  I  do  not  wish  to  give  publicity  to  a  child . 
foolish  escapade.  Her  mother  thought  that  sh( 
might  have  come  to  you,  or  that  she  possibly  saic 
something  to  Seraph,  during  her  last  visit,  tha 
would  give  us  some  idea  as  to  her  whereabouts 

« Seraph  did  not  mention  to  me  that  Madg 
spoke  of  leaving  home.  I  think  if  she  had  m 
child  would  have  told  me,"  and  Louise  looked  ii 
quiringly  at  Seraph,  who  appeared  to  be  great! 
distressed  and  confused. 

"Madge  was  very  unhappy.  She  said  h^ 
mamma  was  severe  and -and- unkind,"  repli. 
Seraph  evasively;  "but  I  can't  repeat  what  s 
told   me.     It  is.  a  secret,  and  I  promised  not 

tell." 

-  But  you  must  tell.     If  you  know  anything,  y 

up 


7-"-^;^iS!T','-.-: 


FOUND. 


241 


UD. 

It  it  is  for  me  to  act  in 
d     Cousin     Franz,    after 

letter,  "for  the  reason 
^e  publicity  to  a  child's 
aother    thought    that    she 

or  that  she  possibly-  said 
iring   her   last    visit,  that 

as  to  her  whereabouts." 
ition   to   me   that    Madge 

I  think  if  she  had,  my 
e,"  and  Louise  looked  in- 
0  appeared  to  be  greatly 

unhappy.      She    said    her 

1__  and  — unkind,"  replied 

I  can't   repeat  what  she 

st,  and   I   promised  not  to 

If  you  know  anything,  you 
340 


must  tell.  It  is  of  the  greatest  importance,"  in- 
sisted Cousin  Franz. 

"  Please  don't  say  that  I  must  tell,  when  I  prom- 
ised not  to,"  pleaded  Seraph. 

'^'' Ma  chere,  don't  you  see  what  a  very  serious 
thing  it  is  for  Madge  to  leave  her  home  in  this 
way.  If  you  know  anything,  I  beg  of  you  to  tell 
Cousin  Franz,"  urged  Madame  Blumenthal,  some- 
what annoyed  at  Seraph's  reticence. 

"  But,  mamma  dear,  how  can  I  when  I  promised 
not  to  tell  ?  I  promised.  It  is  a  secret  between 
Madge  and  me,  and  if  I  told  it,  she  would  never 
trust  me  again." 

Louise  gave  Cousin  Franz  a  discouraged  look,  and 
then  she  said,  "  Very  well,  my  child,  since  you  think 
it  so  important  to  keep  your  word,  can't  you  think 
of  some  way  to  help  us  find  Madge?  You  surely 
don't  want  the  poor  child  disgraced ;  you  don't  want 
her  advertised  in  the  journals.  You  won't  oblige 
us  to  employ  the  police  to  search  for  her  if  you  can 
do  anything." 

Seraph  remained  silent  for  some  moments.  She 
seemed  to  be  thinking  deeply.  Her  soft  little  fore- 
head was  drawn  in  a  frown,  and  her  lips  were  firmly 
pressed  together.     At  length  she   said  cautiously: 


1  r\\ 


-bsHM 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE   VIOLINISTE. 


242 

"Mamma,  perhaps  I  can  find  Madge:  if  Cousin 
Franz  will   wait,  I   may  be  able  to  find  her  and 

fetch  her  home."  . 

"  But  her  mother  is  so  distressed,"  said  Cousm 
Franz  uneasily,  "  she  will  not  be  willing  to  wait ; 
she  will  insist  on  immediate  action." 

"It  won't  be  long,"  replied  Seraph.  "If  I  can't 
find  her,  I  will  come  directly  and  tell  you.  But  if 
I  do  find  her  and  fetch  her  home,  won't  you  prom- 
ise dear  Cousin  Franz,  not  to  be  severe  with  her? 
Won't  you  forgive  her,  and  won't  you  ask  Cousm 
Rachel  not  to  punish  her?" 

Cousin  Franz  looked  very  severe  and  unyieldmg, 
but  at  length  he  said  reluctantly:     «I  will  leave 
her    entirely    to    her    mother.     I    will    trust    her 
mother  to  deal  justly  with  her.    Leniency  is  not 
always  kindness.     However,  I  am   convinced  that 
I  have  no  influence  over  Madge.     I  am  mistaken 
in  hor  Character ;  she  probably  inherits  her  perverse 
disposition  from  her  father.     If  she  were  my  own 
child,  I  could  cope  with  her;  as  it  is,  in  future  I 
shall  leave  her  entirely   to  her  mother.     Now  I 
shall  return  home  and  wait  to  hear  from  Seraph 
before  I  take  any  other  step  toward  findmg  the 
undutiful,  misguided  child." 


lOUNISTE. 

I  Madge-,  if  Cousin 
ale  to  find  her  and 

ressed,"  said  Cousin 
be  willing  to  wait; 
ction." 

Seraph.  "If  I  can't 
nd  tell  you.  But  if 
me,  won't  you  prom- 
be  severe  with  her? 
on't  you  ask  Cousin 

3vere  and  unyielding, 
,ntly:  "I  will  leave 
I  will  trust  her 
ler.  Leniency  is  not 
[  am  convinced  that 
dge.  I  am  mistaken 
J  inherits  her  perverse 

If  she  were  my  own 
;  as  it  is,  in  future  I 
her  mother.     Now  I 

to  hear  from  Seraph 
p  toward  finding  the 


FOUND. 


243 


Then  with  a  hurried  good  morning,  he  went 
away  as  abruptly  as  he  came,  leaving  Seraph  to 
prepare  for  her  quest. 

"  I  shall  ask  Uncle  'Nidas  to  go  with  me,  mamma,' 
so  you  need  not  be  anxious,  and  I  shall  find  Madge 
and  bring  her  to  you.  She  will  be  very  unhappy, 
and  you  will  be  sweet  to  her,  won't  you,  chlre 
petite  mmnan?"  said  Seraph,  as  she  kissed  her 
mother  and  hurried  away,  feeling  intensely  the  im- 
portance of  her  mission. 

"Dear  me!"  murmured  Louise  when  she  was 
alone.  "Who  would  have  thought  that  quiet,  de- 
mure little  thing  had  so  much  self-will  and  inde- 
pendence. I  wish  she  had  not  made  a  confidant 
of  Seraph.  I  don't  like  to  have  my  child  mixed 
up  with  such  an  affair." 

A  little  later  in  the  day  Monsieur  Nardi  and 
Seraph  were  standing  before  the  show  window  of 
a  fashionable  modiste  on  Royal  Street.  They  were 
discussing  the  best  means  of  procedure. 

"I  think  she  is  here,  in  the  workroom  of  this 
shop,"  said  Seraph,  trying  to  peer  between  the  hats 
and  bonnets,  set  pertly  on  wire  frames,  before  the 
glass. 

"But,  ma  chhre,  why  do  you  think  she  is  here?" 


■MM 


r 


244  ^^^^^"'    "^"^  "'^'^^^    VTOUmSTE. 

asked  Monsieur  Nardi,  anxious  to  know   if  there 
wafi  any  foundation  for  such  a  supposition. 

Seraph  was  still  guarding  the  saxjred  secret  with 

all  her  little  moral  strength,  and  not  even  Uncle 

'Nidas  could  wrest  it  from  her.      Therefore,  with 

a  noncommittal  smile,  her  eyes  still  searchmg  the 

rear  of  the  shop,  she  replied,  "  I  can't  tell  why, 

but  I  think   she   is   here.      There's    a   workroom 

back  of  the  shop,  and  when  they  pass  in  and  out, 

I  can  get  a  glimpse  of  a  long  table,  with  a  great 

many  young  girls  on  each  side  of  it;  but  I  don't 

see  Madge.     Still,  I  think  she's  there." 

"Well,  ma  chlre,  let  us  go  in  and  ask:;  that  is 
the  best  way  to  settle  it,"  said  Monsieur  Nardi, 
turning  toward  the  door;  and  Seraph  followed, 
her  heart-beats  audible  to  her  own  ears.  It  was 
a  moment  of  intense  excitement.  If  Madge  should 
not  be  in  that  workroom!  Where  could  she  be? 
The   poor   child   dared   not  think   of   the   altema- 

'""as  they  entered,  a  pleasant-faced,  overdressed 
woman  came  forward,  bowing  and  smiling.  ^'Mon- 
sieur et  mademoiselle,  h  voire  service." 

^^Merci  Imn,  madame;'  returned  Monsieur  Nardi, 
also  bowing  and  smiling.     "Will  you  kindly  teU 


lOLINISTE. 

to  know   if  there 
supposition. 

1  sacred  secret  with 
nd  not  even  Uncle 
r.  Therefore,  with 
}  still  searching  the 

"I  can't  tell  vohy^ 
here's  a  workroom 
ley  pass  in  and  out, 

table,  with  a  great 

2  of  it;  but  I  don't 
s  there." 

in  and  askr;  that  is 
aid  Monsieur  Nardi, 
,nd  Seraph  followed, 
•  own  ears.  It  was 
it.  If  Madge  should 
SVhere  could  she  be? 
hink   of  the   altema- 


ant-faced,  overdressed 
and  smiling.  ''Mon- 
service" 

irned  Monsieur  Nardi, 
'Will  you  kindly  tell 


i 


A'-".  T-^E■,    ENTERED,  A  PHEASANT-FACED,  -VELL-jRESSED   .70MAN  CAM; 
FOR.VARD,  BO.VING,  SMILING." 


JL 


I 


FOUND. 


»45 


me  if  you  engaged  a  young  girl  this  morning,  by 
the  name  of  Madge  ? " 

*^I  do  not  know,  monsieur.  My  forewoman 
engages  the  girls,  but  I  think  one  came  in  this 
morning  who  gave  the  name  of  Maggie.  I  will 
inquire."  And  she  touched  a  silver  bell  that  stood 
on  a  table  covered  with  delicious  bits  of  silk,  rib- 
bons, and  flowers,  as  harmoniously  blended  as 
though  they  were  growing  in  a  garden. 

When  the  door  into  the  workroom  was  about 
to  open,  Seraph  craned  her  neck  so  as  to  com- 
mand a  good  view  of  the  interior;  but,  to  her 
astonishment,  it  was  Madge  herself  who  opened 
the  door,  but  Madge  so  changed  and  transformed, 
that  one  less  well  acquainted  with  her  than  was 
Seraph  would  scarcely  have  recognized  her. 

The  most  important  change  was  in  the  fashion 
of  dressing  her  hair.  She  had  drawn  her  fawn- 
colored  locks  forward,  and  cut  them  off  in  a  thick 
fringe  close  to  her  eyebrows ;  then  her  glossy  braid 
was  curled  and  fluffed,  a  finger  or  more  below 
the  red  ribbon  that  tied  it,  leaving  a  thick  tuft 
at  the  end,  after  the  style  of  a  clipped  poodle ; 
and  she  certainly  must  have  made  heavy  inroads 
on  her  "  mishunery  box,"  in  order  to  purchase  the 


1 


246 


SEKAPJf,    THE  I.ITTI.E   yiOUX/STE. 


red  ribbons  tbat  adorned  her  drab  little  person. 
It  was  tied  ai)out  her  neck  and  hung  in  long  ends 
behind.  It  was  tied  about  her  waist  and  hung 
in  long  ends  in  front.  In  fact,  it  was  obvious 
that  Madge  had  gratified  her  inordinate  taste  for 
red  ribbons  to  its  fullest  extent. 

But  just  at  first  Seraph  did  not  notice  the  eccen- 
tricities of  Madge's  dress,  for  her  eyes  were  lixed 
on   the   troubled,   tear-stained    face.      The  embryo 
modiste  had  evidently  been  handling  a  great  many 
dusty  articles,  and  using  her  fingers,  instead  of  her 
handkerchief,  to  wipe  away  the  too  obtrusive  signs 
of  sorrow,  for  a  smudgy  circle  under  each  eye  gave 
her  usually  stolid  face  a  very  pathetic  expression. 
Before  she  wa?  half  through  the  opening  of  the 
door  she  saw  Seraph  and  Monsieur  Nardi.     A  flood 
of  crimson  swept  from  brow  to  chin,  and  she  was 
about  to  shrink  back,  panting  and  trembling  like 
a  hunted   hare,   when  Seraph  darted  forward  and 
laid  hold  of  her  with  a  vigorous  clutch. 

"  Oh,  Madge,  Madge !     I'm  so  glad  to  find  you. 

Come  with  me,  come  home !  "  she  cried  entreatingly. 

Then  ensued  a  little   struggle,  Madge   trying  to 

retreat  into  the  workroom,  and  Seraph  clinging  to 

her  with  all  her  might. 


'Jsl 


\UMSTE. 

rah  little  person, 
lung  in  long  ends 
waist  and  hung 
D,  it  was  obvious 
[Ordinate  taste  for 

t,  notice  the  eccen- 
jr  eyes  were  lixed 
ice.      The  embryo 
ling  a  great  many 
jers,  instead  of  her 
too  obtrusive  signs 
ider  each  eye  gave 
athetic  expression, 
the  opening  of  the 
eur  Nardi.    A  flood 
chin,  and  she  was 
and  trembling  like 
larted  forward  and 
s  clutch. 

3  glad  to  find  you. 

B  cried  entreatingly. 

!,  Madge   trying  to 

Seraph  clinging  to 


FOUND. 


247 


"I  don't  want  to  go,  and  I  shan't,"  protested 
Madge,  the  tears  starting  in  a  torrent. 

"  But  you  must,  you  .shall,"  insisted  Seraph,  look- 
ing appeal ingly  at  Mon.sieur  Nardi,  who  stepped 
forward,  smiling  serenely,  but  .saying  calmly  and 
decidedly, — 

'*  Come,  come,  my  dear  child  ;  this  is  foolish.  Get 
your  hat,  like  a  good  girl,  and  I  will  explain  to 
Madame.  I  am  sure  she  will  excuse  you  and  allow 
you  to  go  with  us." 

Then  Monsieur  Nardi,  in  a  few  polite  and  pleasant 
words,  informed  the  modiste  that  her  little  appren- 
tice had  left  her  home  without  the  permission  or 
knowledge  of  her  mother,  who  was  highly  respect- 
able and  quite  rich,  and  that  he  and  her  little 
cousin  had  come  to  fetch  her  back. 

"^/i,  oui,  monsieur,  I  understand;  a  self-willed 
little  thing,"  said  the  modiste,  smiling  and  bowing 
them  out,  as  pleasantly  and  politely  as  though  they 
had  bought  a  dozen  hats. 

Seraph  glanced  pityingly  at  Madge,  who  followed 
them  reluctantly,  looking  very  forlorn  in  her  un- 
accu.stomed  finery,  crowned  by  a  hat,  in  which,  in 
the  first  moment  of  her  freedom,  she  had  trium- 
phantly placed  a  large  bunch  of  cheap  red  roses. 


XXXI. 


IN   THE    FOLD. 

SERAPH  thought  it  judicious,  before  she  returned 
the  wandering  lamb  to  the  fold,  to  freshen 
luT  up  a  little  and  make  her  more  presentable. 
Therefore  she  insisted  on  taking  the  little  rebel  to 
Louise,  whose  sweetness  and  kindness,  she  knew, 
would  have  a  softening  etfect,  and  tend  to  subdue 
the  pride  and  self-will  of  the  penitent  more  effect- 
ually than  severity  or  even  maternal  authority. 

Madge  lagged  behind,  still  affecting  a   stubborn 
resistance  toward  those  who  desired  to   return   her 
to   the   fold.     She  was  a  soiled,  tired,  whimpermg 
lamb,  and  heartily   glad   to  be   saved   in    spite    of 
herself;    yet  she  thought  she  would  be  lacking  m 
.lignity  if  she  yielded  too  easily  and  acknowledged 
herself  conquered  in  her  little   battle   for   freedom. 
However,  her  small  comedy  of  opposition  was  very 
transparent,  and  even  Seraph  felt  that  Madge   did 
not  mean  it  when  she  protested  that   she   did   not 
wish  to  return  home,  that  she  had  left  home   for- 

348 


,*^*>*-^  ■'!»**'**•• 


tN  THE  FOLD. 


249 


,  before  she  returned 
the  fold,  to  freshen 
r  more  presentable, 
ig  the  little  rebel  to 
kindness,  she   knew, 

and  tend  to  subdue 
penitent  more  ett'ect- 
aternal  authority, 
affecting  a  stubborn 
esired  to  return  her 
;d,  tired,  whimpering 
e   saved   in    spite    of 

would  be  lacking  in 
ily  and  acknowledged 
!  battle  for  freedom. 
f  opposition  was  very 

felt  that  Madge  did 
ted  that  she  did  not 
le  had  left  home   for- 


ever, n!ul  if  tlu^  insisted  on  taking  lior  back,  .she 
would  go  whore  they  would  never  Hnd  her. 

To  all  of  which  .Monsieur  NardI  replied  (|uietly, 
"«^M,  imx  {Y/,  ma  chhe,  pm  {•,«.  You  don't  mean 
what  you  are  saying,  and  you  don't  know  what 
you  are  doing." 

When  they  reached  Madame  Blnmenthal's  door, 
Seraph  could  .scarcely  persuade  Madge  to  enter,  for 
suddenly  .she  seemed  overwhelmed  with  shame,  and 
hung  back  in  the  greatest  confusion. 

'•Come  in,  dear  child,  come  to  me;  I  want  to 
talk  to  you,"  called  Loui.se,  in  her  sweet,  persuasive 
tones.  "Come  to  me  just  as  Seraph  does  when 
she  is  unhappy."  And  the  little  invalid  held  out 
her  arms. 

Madge  could  not  resist  that  invitation  of  heart- 
felt tenderness.  With  another  burst  of  tears,  and 
a  great  sob,  she  threw  herself  beside  Madame  Blu- 
menthal,  and  hiding  her  swollen,  smiidgy  little  face 
ill  her  grimy  hands,  she  confessed  herself  subdued, 
if  not  conquered,  and  heartily  sick  of  the  freedom 
•she  had  longed  for. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  child,"  said  Loui.se,  after  she 
had  soothed  and  petted  the  little  penitent  until 
she  was  somewhat  compo.sed,  "  your  mother  is  very 


If 

i 


mriinrHMiimiiiw  fi  mm 


250  5£^^^//.    THE  LITTLE    VIOUNISTE. 

anxious  and  unhappy,  and  you  must  go  to  her  as 
soon  as  possible.     She  loves  you.    Never  doubt  her 
love  again,  and  she  will  take  you  into  her  heart 
and   forgive   you   freely.      Be    patient    and    docile, 
even  if  you   are   crossed  and   thwarted,  and   some 
day  you  will  learn,  as  I  have,  that  what  seems  a 
cruelty  is  often  a  blessing  in  disguise.     Cheer  up 
poor  little  heart;  go  to  your  parents  in  a  spmt  of 
submission  and  love,  and   all   will  be  well.^  Now, 
dear,   bathe   your  face   and  eyes,  and  won  t  you 
chkie,  to  please  me,  take  off  those  red  ribbons,  and 
that  bunch  of   roses   from  your  hat.      You   are   i 
good,  modest  little  girl,  and  I  am   sure  you  don 
wish   to  look  common   and  vulgar.     You  are  no 
old  enough  to  wear   such   gaudy   colors.     And  le 
me  trim  your   fringe  a  little,  to   show  your  fore 
head,  and  this  rough  tangle  at  the  end  of  yo« 
braid  is  very  untidy.     There!  now  you  look  like 

little  lady." 

Madge  suffered  herself  to  be  despoiled  withoi 
a  murmur,  and  so  contrite  was  she  that  she  eve 
regretted  having  sacrificed  her  front  hair  to  h 
spirit  of  insubordination;  but  her  regrets  m  th 
direction  were  useless.  She  could  not  restore  h 
fawn-colored  locks  to  their  original  condition.      \^ 


I 


LE    VIOLIN ISTE. 

you  must  go  to  her  as 
3  you.    Never  doubt  her 
ike   you  into  her  heart 
Be    patient    and    docile, 
bnd   thwarted,  and   some 
lave,  that  what  seems  a 
in  disguise.     Cheer  up, 
(ur  parents  in  a  spirit  of 
all  will  be  well.    Now, 
id  eyes,  and  won't  you, 
iff  those  red  ribbons,  and 
I  your  hat.      You   are   a 
tnd  T  am   sure  you  don't 
nd  vulgar.     You  are  not 
I   gaudy   colors.     And  let 
little,  to   show   your  fore- 
ngle   at  the  end   of  your 
lere!  now  you  look  like  a 

f  to  be  despoiled  without 
ite  was  she  that  she  even 
•ed  her  front  hair  to  her 
;  but  her  regrets  in  that 
She  could  not  restore  her 
sir  original  condition.     But 


IN  THE  FOLD. 


251 


Louise  reassured  her  by  telling  her  that  the  fringe 
was  pretty  and  modest  when  cut  a  proper  length, 
and  she  was  sure  that  Madame  Arnet  would  not 
object  to  it. 

Ever  since  she  could  1 -^member,  Madge  had 
longed  for  a  fringe ;  therefore  she  felt  that  she  had 
gained  one  small  victoiy,  even  if  the  skirmish 
had  been  disastrous. 

Returning  to  the  fold  was  a  terrible  ordeal  for 
the  little  penitent ;  but  it  had  to  be  done  before 
she  could  expect  pardon  and  peace.  Strengthened 
by  Louise's  sensible  advice,  and  encouraged  by 
Seraph's  confidence  in  Cousin  Franz's  promise, 
Madge  turned  her  face  homeward,  a  sadier  and  a 
wiser  .hild.  She  would  not  allow  Seraph  to  ac- 
company her.  She  felt  that  the  meeting  and 
reconciliation  would  be  more  effective  without 
spectators. 

Before  she  reached  the  gate  of  her  home,  she 
saw  her  mother  pacing  the  front  gallery  restlessly, 
stopping,  now  and  then,  to  look  into  the  street 
with  an  air  of  anxious  expectancy. 

Madge  never  could  remember  just  what  took 
place;  but  before  the  gate  was  fairly  closed  behind 
Iier,   she   was   clasped   in   her   mother's  arms,  and 


I 


I' 
'1. 


,^2  SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOUNISTE. 

*i    V  were  crying  together.    Then  her  papa  came 
the:y   were  cry  ng       g  ^.^^        ^^^ 

forward   and  kissed  her  graveiy,  u  y 

;:;  mtle  was  said;  but  the  pemten    chOd  feu 

«./f«n  blessing  0.  pardon  and  ^^^^^^^  ^^„ 

That  evening,  when  Madge  was  agam  .n  her  own 

,itt,e  white  room,  her  mother  --  ;  ^^y.^^ 

^>-r'"i^tint"::tirsLrthe 

:Srr^^:ort:  unbutton  her  ow^frc^s, 
^he  said  with  a  little  tremor  m  her  voice      fer 

eregation.     However,  mj 

or.a  T  have  decided  to  huy  you  a  new  frock 
:ratghor:hat,butIthinUbl«ewou,dbe 

.™efs    congregation    heg^  to    .^r.^on    th^ 

TTr    m  f^that  she  might  do  a 
daughter.    ^"^^'J  introducing  the  religion 

little  missionary  worK,  oy 
„{  beauty  into  a  heart    ignorant   of    its    reiin    g 


it' 


rOLINISTE. 

len  her  papa  came 
y,  but   kindly,   and 

penitent   child  felt 

reconciliation. 
Ets  again  in  her  own 
came  in  softly,  and 
iting  in  the  prepara- 
1  not  done  since  the 
tton  her  own  frocks, 

in  her  voice,  "Per- 
erhaps  I  have  dressed 
)W  a  minister's  wife 
a  her  husband's  con- 
r,  I  have  thought  it 
buy  you  a  new  frock 
think  blue  would  be 

St  as  you  like,"    was 

linine    portion  of    Mr. 
I    to    remark    on    the 
e  minister's  wife    and 
that   she  might  do  a 
introducing  the  religion 
norant    of    its    refining 


W  THE  FOLD. 


253 


influence,  presented  Cousin  Rachel  with  one  of  the 
charming  flower-bonnets  which  her  little  fingers 
fashioned  so  exquisitely,  and  when  Madame  Arnet 
placed  the  dainty  wreath  of  violets  on  her  pale 
brown  hair,  she  looked  ten  years  younger,  and  so 
well  that  Madge  exclaimed  admiringly : 

"Oh,  mamma!  how  pretty  you  look!  It  suits 
you  perfectly.  Now  you  must  have  a  gown  of 
violet  silk  and  black  lace  to  wear  with  it." 

Madame  Arnet  readily  accepted  the  suggestion. 
Her  eyes  were  open  at  last  to  the  dignity  and 
charm  of  a  suitable  and  becoming  toilet,  and  even 
the  austere  Franz  was  forced  to  admit  that,  when 
one  could  afford  it,  there  were  many  advantages 
i)i  being  well  dressed. 

Lying  dormant  in  many  characters  is  a  spark 
of  love  for  the  beautiful,  which,  when  once  fanned 
to  a  flame,  burns  brighter  from  having  been  so 
long  repressed.  This  seemed  to  be  the  case  with 
Madame  Arnet.  She  not  only  dressed  more  be- 
comingly and  more  fashionably,  but  she  made  her 
house  more  attractive  by  adding  many  little  orna- 
ments and  refinements  which  she  had  always  con- 
sidered frivolous  and  useless;  and  Madge  was 
allowed   to   do  china  painting,   and   to   dabble  in 


J54  ^^-^w.  '■**  ""'■^  vioumsTE. 

water  colors  to  her  heart's  content.  Alter  a  while 
:r  the  objectionable  .usic  and  ™  wh^n 
it  was  no  longer  compulsory,  became  a  pleasu^, 
and  Professor  Vortman  was  heard  to  declare  that 
:;  pupil  had   a   fair   chance   of    getUng   beyond 

"1v:;\y  the  friendship  '^-een^^trS 
Seraph  grew  stronger  and  more  tender,  beraph 
had  proved  a  trustworthy  friend  in  the  hour  of 
adversity.  She  had  kept  the  secret  and  — d 
the  reconciliation  so  well  that  Madge  could  never 
t  geTto  be  grateful.    And  now  life  wa«  so  much 

ZL  and  brighter  to  the  child  since  the  rehg.o„s 

of  beauty  and  duty  were  combined. 


•,,f^Dg^llg0m,tmii'e*mmKa>«^-' 


roLlNISTE. 

,ent.  Alter  a  while 
md  German,  when 
became  a  pleasure; 
lard  to  declare  that 
of    getting    beyond 

)etween    Madge  and 
3re   tender.      Seraph 
end  in  the   hour  of 
secret,  and  managed 
t  Madge  could  never 
ow  life  was  so  much 
ild  since  the  religions 
ibined. 


XXXII.  • 

MAURICE  AND  SHTLOCK. 

T^HE  three  years  of  Seraph's  training  with  Pro- 
fessor Vortman  were  nearly  over,  and  already 
he  was  discussing  the  necessity   of  foreign   study 
for  the  little  violiniste. 

"It  is  absolutely  necessary,"  he  would  say  in 
His  strong,  urgent  voice.  "  She  must  have  another 
master;  she  must  study  in  a  foreign  school." 

To    the    frail    little    mother,   who    was   satisfied 
with  her  present  condition,  but  could  see  no  pros- 
pect of  improving  it,  foreign  study  for  her  child 
.seemed  simply  an  impossibility.     Through  Madame 
St.  Maxent's  influence,  she  had  built  up  an  excel- 
lent business.     Still,   by  constant   labor,  often   as- 
sisted  by  Seraph,  she  could  earn  only  enough  for 
their  daily  needs.     How,  then,  could  she  give  up 
her  work,  her  only  means  of  subsistence,  and  live 
in  Paris  with  her  child  ?    Besides,  her  crippled  con- 
dition made  travelling  a  serious  difficulty. 
Seraph,  was  growing  more  beautiful  every  day, 

»5$ 


m*'i>'' 


,56  ^«^™  '•'"''  "'■"•^  "'»•'""■^• 

.„d  there  was  no  doubt  that  she  had  rare  m«»ical 
talent.  The  few  who  had  heard  her  pUy  felt  t 
TT  .  S.  Maxent  and  Maurice  were  enthusiastic 
rir^The'  a"   atreadyher  fame  had  gone  abroad 

for  they  had  spoken  of  her  to  tlieir  ir 
lor  vn^y  r  audience  would 

prodigy,  and  at  any  tune  a  lar  p„_f„ggor 

have  been  delighted  to  listen  to  her;  but  Professor 
VoTtln  woufd  not  hear  of  her  playing  in  pubhc 
until  she  had  completed  her  studies. 

Monsieur    Nardi    and    Cousin    Franz   often   dis 
cussed  the  child's  future.  ^  ^^^^_ 

"  Certainly,  she  must  go  to  fans,    tne 

ij  an^  it  seemed  to  Cousin  Franz 

:"i;:r:'Ht'h:saia.  .certain.,  .c 

™fB:tt:o:;rera.raea.  She  could  not 
,o  jLut  her  mother,  and  LouWs  lamene. 
would  make  it  still  more  expensive 

..Yes    it   would   cost   more,  certainly,     replied 

Monsteur  Nardi   reflectively;   "but  then  there   is 

frZce  of    Madame  Blumenthal  being   cured. 

-    "rfidont  that  the  celebrate  Doctor  Duplan 

could  cm-e  her  lameness." 

..It  is   true,   she   might  be   cured   >«    *«   ^  ^ 
there,  but  there  is  no  chance  of  her  going.    Poor^ 


VIOLINISTE. 

he  had  rare  musical 
ard  her  play  felt  it. 
•ice  were  enthusiastic 
me  had  gone  abroad, 
to  their  friends  as  a 
large  audience  would 
to  her;  but  Professor 
her  playing  in  public 
studies, 
sin    Franz   often   dis- 

)  Paris,"  the  old  book- 

emed  to  Cousin  Franz 

said,  "Certainly,  she 

3on. 

at  deal;  she  could  not 

Mid    Louise's    lameness 

xpensive." 

,ore,  certainly,"   replied 

r;    "but  then   there    is 

lumenthal   being    cured. 

slebrated  Doctor  Duplan 

be   cured    if    she   were 
nice  of  her  going.     Poor 


MAURICE  AND  SHYLOCK. 


257 


little  Louise ! "  and  Cousin  Franz  sighed.  « I  wish 
I  had  the  money  to  send  her,  but,  unfortunately, 
I  am  poor." 

Then  Monsieur  Nardi  would  rub  his  forehead 
reflectively,  and  say  in  a  preoccupied  tone,  "Yes, 
yes,  they  must  go.  I  don't  see  clearly  how  it  is 
to  be  accomplished,  but  they  must  go.  Seraph's 
future  depends  on  it.  Two  years  or  more  in  the 
Paris  consermtoire,  and  then  what  a  brilliant  future 
for  the  Cher  petit  ange.  Yes,  it  must  be  arranged. 
She  must  go." 

One  day  Maurice  St.  Maxent  made  a  tour  of  all 
the  music  shops,  bric-a-brac  shops,  and  pawn  shops, 
in  New  Orleans.  He  wished  to  find  a  certain  vio- 
lin that  he  had  heard  of,  and  that  he  had  reason 
to  believe  was  in  one  of  the  above  places. 

The  morning  before  he  and  Seraph  had  prac- 
tised together  for  some  time,  under  the  instruction 
of  Professor  Vortman.  Their  duets  were  charming 
because  of  the  perfect  sympathy  between  them. 
They  both  loved  the  violin,  and  when  they  played, 
it  seemed  as  if  one  soul  and  one  hand  controlled 
the  instruments.  Since  Maurice  had  known  Ser- 
aph he  had  grown  more  ambitious  to  excL'l.  The 
child's  constant  and  patient  study  was   a  reproof 


MWiilBiMMSt^- 


?! 


t  I 


258  SEJiAP//,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

to  him ;  and  he  often  thought,  "  Ah,  if  I  had  her 
touch,  her  feeling,  I  might  become  a  second 
Joachim.  As  it  is,  I  can  only  try  to  follow  her 
lead,  to  emulate  her  industry  and  perseverance." 

On  this  occasion.  Seraph  spoke  for  the  first  time 
to  Maurice  of  her  father's  violin,  the  wonderful  del 

Gesti. 

"A  genuine  del  Ges(i!"  cried  Maurice,  in  aston- 
ishment.    "  Why,  I  did  not  think  there  was  one  in 

this  city." 

"Yes,  my  papa  had  one.  He  came  from  a 
family  of  musicians,  and  it  had  been  for  a  long 
time  in  the  family.  I  never  shall  play  as  well  on 
any  other  violin,"  she  said  sadly. 

"Why,  what  became  of  it?"  asked  Maurice, 
greatly  interested. 

« It  was  sold,"  returned  Seraph  briefly. 

"And  don't  you  know  who  bought  it?" 

"  No,  Cousin  Franz  did  not  tell  me.  I  think  I 
didn't  care  to  know,  I  was  so  unhappy  at  losing 

it." 

*«I  don't  wonder,"  said  Maurice,  with  ready  sym- 
pathy "One  doesn't  come  across  a  del  Gesii 
every  day.  It  was  horrible  to  sell  it.  Mr.  Arnet 
could  not  have  known  its  value." 


ILINISTR. 

'Ah,  if  I  had  her 
Decoine  a  second 
try  to  follow  her 
d  perseverance." 
for  the  first  time 
,  the  wonderful  del 

Maurice,  in  aston- 
k  there  was  one  in 

He  came  from  a 
d  been  for  a  long 
lall  play  as  well  on 

? "    asked    Maurice, 

iph  briefly. 

bought  it?" 

tell  me.     I  think  I 

>  unhappy  at  losing 

rice,  with  ready  sym- 
across    a    del    Gesii 

>  sell  it.     Mr.  Arnet 
le." 


MAURICE  AND   SHY  LOCK. 


259 


"Oh,  yes,  he  knew  that  it  was  worth  a  great 
deal,  but  it  was  a  necessity,"  returned  Seraph, 
lier  cheeks  flushing  hotly. 

Maurice  said  no  more,  but  he  determined  to  find 
the  purchaser  of  the  del  Gesii.  First,  he  called  on 
Cousin  Franz  and  learned  the  name  of  the  dealer 
who  had  bought  it.  Then  he  wont  to  hi«  estab- 
lishment, but  the  member  of  the  firm  wiio  jiad 
negotiated  the  sale  with  Cousin  Franz  was  at  that 
time  in  Europe,  and  there  was  no  one  who  could 
give  him  any  precise  information. 

However,  as  he   was    about    leaving    the    shop, 
somewhat  disappointed  at  his  failure  to  learn  the' 
name  of  the  purchaser,  a  young  clerk  entered  who 
remembered    the    transaction.     His    employer    had 
sold  the  violin  to  a  French  violinist  named  Felix, 
who   had   formerly  played    with   Carl    Blumenthal,' 
and  who  knew  the  value  of  the  instrument.     This 
artist  had  bought  it  as  a  speculation,  intending  to 
take  It  abroad,  where  such  a  rare  instrument  would 
command  a  high  price.     Whether  he  had  done  so 
the   clerk   could   not   say,   as   after  they   sold    the 
violin  they  heard  no  more  about  it. 

Maurice  St.  Maxent  was  not  a  boy  to  be  easily 
discouraged,    so    he    immediately    hunted    up    the 


^TV-Ayra,^,.^^..,-- 


I 


If 


■J 


,60        ■«*•"'■"•  ""•  '■'""■  """■"""• 

]^,^r  of  the  orchestra  in  which  the  violim,t 

1  nKved    who  remembered   Fehx  perfectly,  b»t 

hKt  N  w  Orleans  two  years  before  under 
he  had  lell  iiew  _^ 

unpleasant  circumstances.    He  had  aiway 

,         11    =    (..How    who    had    wasted    his 
dissipated,  reclileas    fellow,  wno 

„onev  and  made  debts  right  and  left     He Jcnew 
mU  bought  Carl  BlmnenthaVs  "oUn,  becau 

he    believed  it  to  be  a  Guarn.er. ;    but  fo    that 
It^:,  the  leader  of  the  orchestra^t,.ught  one 

good  violin  as  valuable  as  another.     Ther  for^^  h 
considered  that  egani  Felix  .nsane  to  put  all 
could  get  hold  of  in  that  old  mstrument^ 

Thefe  had  been  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  >t  _»t 

J  tae       He  had  been  obliged  to  discharge  the 

,    Tand  after  that  had  seen  nothing  of  h.m; 

r  rh::::"  that  wh.  Ken.  got  into^oub. 
^^•"^r^TdtX  Ho::er:hrt:o':;tit 

wVipre  he  could  not  say  ,11""^  ..    „„ 

uS  he  had  pledged  it  instead  of  selhng  .t,  ^ 
he  would  be  unwilling  to  give  up  all  clarm  to    o 

valuaUe  an  instrument  after  he  had   made   such 

an  effort  to  get  possession  of  it. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,  my  young  fnend,    added 

,    ,«r  "that  if  you  search  the  pawn  shops 
the  cmdmtmr,    that      you 

down  town,  you'll  come  across  it.    Felix  has 


,-.«<«s*«B««l»«(«««*^-- 


OUNIS'IE. 

Arhich  the  violinist 
'elix  perfectly,  but 
years  before  under 
lad  always  been  a 

0  had    wasted    his 
nd  left.     He  knew 
.hal's  violin,  because 
lieri;    but  for  that 
chestra,  thought  one 
ither.    Therefore,  he 
nsane  to  pub  all  he 
instrument. 

1  of  talk  about  it  at 
red  to  discharge   the 
leen  nothing  of  him; 
?elix  got  into  trouble 
violin.    To  whom  or 
wever,  he  thought  it 
tead   of  selling   it,  as 
e  up  all  claim  to  so 
r  he  had   made   such 

E  it. 

young  friend,"  added 
search  the  pawn  shops 
ss  it.    Felix  has  never 


MAUKICE  AXD  SHY  LOCK. 


W^ 


returned  since  he  left,  and  it's  likely  to  be  ju8t 
where  he  plm-ed  it.  If  it  is,  you'll  get  it  for 
what  they  loaned  on  it;  and  it  won't  be  mucli, 
for  those  people  don't  appreciate  things  greatly  be- 
yond their  intrinsic  value." 

Maurice  thanked  the  ronductmr  for  his  val  table 
information,  and  went  away  deterniiiied  to  continue 
his  search.     After  spending   the    best   jmrt   of   the 
day  going  from  one   obscure   place   to  another,  he 
came  upon  a  dingy  pawn  shop  on  Bourl)on  Street, 
kept  by  an  old  Shylock  who  looked  as   if   he   had 
stepped   out  of   the   Middle    Ages.      It   was   not  ft 
promising  place  to  look  for  anything  of  value,  but 
Maurice    remembered    that    it    is    the    unexpected 
which  oftenest  happens,  so  he  entered,  not  wiiliout 
some  qualms,  so  dingy   and    dark    was   the    place, 
and  so  sinister  was  the  appearance  of  its  occupant, 
who,  however,  came  forward  fawning  servility. 
"  Gute  tay,  my  vriend.     Vhat  can  I  do  vor  you  ?  " 
"  Good  day,  monsieur,"  said  Maurice  politely,  while 
he  glanced  about  in  a  cursory  sort  of  way.     "  I  am 
interested  in  curios,  antiques ;    I  was  passing  and  I 
just  looked  in  to  see  what  you  have." 

"Much,  much,  my  rriend;  all  here  is  curio,  all 
here  is  antique,  and  faluable,  faluable,"  he  replied, 


^ 


?; 


^62 


StiKAl'.'/,    THE  I.ITTLE    VtOLINlSTE. 


i';!;i 


with  a  cuinpreliensive   awei-p  of   tho   hand,  and   a 
voracious  cunning  in  his  bead-like  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Maurice,  glancing  from  one 
thing  to  another  with  an  amateurish  rir,  ?.nd 
oi '.  asionally  pricing  a  bit  of  trash,  to  which  he 
wnnl«1   not   give   house   room. 

The  old  Jew,  judging  from  Mie  boy's  dress  that 
he  was  rich,  and  thinking  that  he  had  an  easy 
victim  in  one  so  young  and  inexperienced,  plied 
him  with  the  few  articles  of  value  whii  b  he  pos- 
sessed, urging  and  pleading  in  the  n:  iit  vehe- 
ment way  tlL^t.  he  wosM  buy  something  of  his 
"faluable  collection,  for  tlse  lofe  of  heafen,  as  he 
was  poor,  fery  poor." 

After  suflicielitly  exciting  the  old  man's  cupidity 
by  displaying  a  fat  pocket-book,  which  he  took  out 
for  the  apparent  purpose  of  consulting  a  memoran- 
dum, Maurice  turned  toward  the  door,  saying  care- 
lessly, "  Yes,  monsieur,  you  have  some  good  things, 
but  nothing  I  care  to  buy  to-day.  I  will  call 
again." 

But  before  the  boy  could  reach  the  door,  the  Jew 
was  at  his  side,  holding  out  his  claw-like  hands 
imploringly.  "  My  vriend,  my  gute  young  vriend, 
you  hafe   not  seen   all   my  antiques.     I   hafe  yet 


i 


4v 


lUNlSTH. 

thu   hand,  and   a 
e  eyes. 

lancing  from  one 
ateurish  r.  ir,  and 
ash,   to   which   he 


W^ 


e  boy's  dress  that 
he  had   an   easy 

lexperienced,  plied 

ue  whi.Jt  he  pos- 
the    n;  iit    vehe- 

sometbing  of  his 
of  heafen,  as  he 

old  man's  cupidity 
which  he  took  out 
ulting  a  memoran- 
door,  saying  care- 
some  good  things, 
day.      I    will    call 

I  the  door,  the  Jew 
lis  claw-like  hands 
;ute  young  vriend, 
iques.     I   hafe  yet 


memm-mmmmmiM 


^     \^       ^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  145S0 

(716)  872-4503 


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Microfiche 

Series. 


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Collection  de 
microfiches. 


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Canadian  Initituta  for  Hiatorical  Microraproducilont  /  Inatltut  Canadian  da  microraproductiona  hiatorlquaa 


^'•A*^*'*'^'"*.«;11'**^*. 


MAURICE  AND  SHY  LOCK 


263 


to  show  you  von  fery  rare   fiolin.      Vill  you   vait 
vhile  I  show  it  to  you?" 

Maurice  almost  sluiddered  at  the  clutching  fingers ; 
he  was  near  the  door  and  he  felt  a  strong  desire  to 
escape,  but  at  the  mention  of  the  violin,  he  turned 
back,  saying,  with  well-assumed  indifference,  "  I  am 
afraid  it  is  not  one  I  should  care  for,  but  I  don't 
mind  looking  at  it." 

The  old  man  ran  behind  the  counter,  still  keeping 
his  eyes  on  the  boy,  as  if  he  feared  he  might  give 
him  the  slip,  and  get  out  before  he  could  prevent 
it.  Taking  a  big  bimch  of  keys  from  the  pocket 
of  the  old  dressing-gown  he  wore,  he  proceeded  to 
unlock  a  heavy  chest,  from  which,  after  rummaging 
some  minutes,  he  drew  out  an  old  violin  and  laid 
it  before  the  boy. 

On  the  under  part  of  the  neck  of  the  instru- 
ment was  a  small  silver  plate,  worn  thin  with  age, 
and  on  it  was  engraved  in  nearly  effaced  letters, 
"Gustav  Blumenthal,  Berlin,  1727,"  and  under- 
neath, in  newer  characters,  "  C.  B.  1868." 

"There,  my  vriend,  you  see  how  old  this  fiolin 
is,"  he  exclaimed,  eagerly  pointing  with  his  grimy 
finger.  "This  faluable  fiolin  vos  made  in  Berlin 
in  1727,  more  than  von  hundred  j'&ars   ago,  by   a 


264 


SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE  VIOLINISTE. 


vamous  fiolin-maker,  Gustav  Blumenchal.  This 
fiolin  is  von  vamous  Blumenthal.  Look  at  it,  my 
vriend,  look  at  it." 

Maurice  could  scarcely  control  his  usually  steady 
young  nerves,  as  he  turned  the  instrument  and  ex- 
amined it  for  the  mark  of  the  maker.  Yes,  there 
it  was,  the  peculiar  Guarnieri  seal.  It  was  the  del 
Gesu,  beyond  a  doubt. 

"Look  at  it  veil,  examine  it,"  urged  the  Jew. 
"  It  is  von  vamous  fiolin." 

"  Oh,  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  a  judge,"  said  Maurice, 
putting  the  instrument  down  with  an  air  of  indif- 
ference. "I  have  a  little  friend  who's  learning  to 
play;  she  wants  a  violin.     I  daresay  it  might  suit 

her." 

"Puy  it  vor  her,  puy  it!"  interrupted  the  old 
man  eagerly.  "I  vill  sell  it  sheap,  vor  nothing; 
there,  for  nothing."  As  he  spoke  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  spread  out  his  hands,  palms 
downward. 

"  You  don't  mean  that  you  will  gim  it  to  me  ? " 
laughed  Maurice. 

"The  same,  my  vriend,  the  same.  Von  French 
fiddler  pledged  it  more  than  two  year— two  year 
and  I  hafe  not  seen  my  gute  money.    He  borrowed 


Sj^ji;<ij^e*5!>i,v. 


ffm 


VIOUNISTE. 

Blumenchal.      This 
lal.    Look  at  it,  my 

rol  his  usually  steady 
e  instrument  and  ex- 
e  maker.  Yes,  there 
seal.     It  was  the  del 

it,"  urged  the  Jew. 

judge,"  said  Maurice, 

with  an  air  of  indif- 

3nd  who's  learning  to 

daresay  it  might  suit 

"  interrupted  the  old 
b  sheap,  vor  nothing; 
J  spoke  he  shrugged 
>ut    his    hands,  palms 

!  will  give  it  to  me?" 

le  same.     Von  French 

two  year — two  year 

I  money.    He  borrowed 


MAURICE  AXD  SHYLOCK. 


««5 


vor  von  month,  and  now  it's  more  than  two  year, 
and  I  liafe  not  seen  my  gute  money." 

It  would  take  too  long  to  repeat   in  detail   all 
the   bargaining   that   took   place   between    Maurice 
and  Shylock.     The  finesse  employed  on  both  sides 
would    furnish    a    chapter    useful    to    a    diplomat 
However,   for   once,   Shylock    was    hoisted    by   his 
own  petard.     Not  knowing   the  real   value  of  his 
property,  he  tried  to  give  it  a  fictitious  value   by 
declaring    that    it    was   "von   vamous    Blumenthal 
of  Berlin,  made  in  1727,"  which  date  was  probably 
the  year  when  it  came  into  the  possession  of  Carl's 
great-grandfather,  Gustav  Blumenthal. 

This  undervaluation  delighted  Maurice,  as  it 
made  it  possible  for  him  to  purchase  the  violin 
After  something  like  an  hour's  parleying,  and  when 
he  had  been  induced  to  return  at  least  a  dozen 
times,  he  finally  left  with  the  Guarnieri,  wrapped 
m  greasy  paper,  under  his  arm,  and  a  collapsed 
notebook  in  his  pocket.  Maurice  got  the  violin, 
but  Shylock  got  every  dollar  the  boy  had  with 
him,  and  double  the  sum  that  he  had  loaned  to 
Felix,  the  former  owner. 


xxxin. 

A  LITTLE   ROMANCE. 

-OEOFESSOK  VOKTMAN  had  been  Bitting  jj* 
r    Madame  Blumenthal   fo.-  an   hour  or    more 
t„i„g  to  impress  upon  her  mind,  already  burdened 
Sthe  same  subject,  the  importance  of  Seraph 
Ttudying  abroad,    "I  have  carried  her  as  far  as  I 
:f^e  said  candidly.    "  I  -.,y  can't  ..A  h« 
any  longer.    She  is  going  beyond  me.    Her  tech 
nie  is  excellent.      Now,  all  she  needs  .  style 
Tflnish,  and  that  she  can  get  only  m  a  fore.gn 
rll.    My  dear  madame,  it  is  of  the  utmos    nn- 
portance.    Her  future  success  de^nd'  "Pon    ^ 

.Yes,  I  know,  I  understand  fully,  returned 
Lonise  piteously.  "But  what  can  I  doj  I  hav^ 
not  the  money  to  take  her  to  Pans,  and  I  am  so 
tepts  If  I  -re  well.  I  might  do  someth.„g> 
':  tl  there  is  no  possibility  of  my  bemg  able 

^rrta•i,  madame,  I  understand  your  position 
I  ««  that  you  cannot  accomplish  .t  alone,    but 

266 


jn  Bitting  with 
our   or    more, 
ready  burdened 
ice  of  Seraph's 
tier  as  far  as  I 
can't  teach  her 
nie.    Her  tech- 
needs   is  style 
dy  in  a  foreign 
the  utmost  ira- 
ids  upon  it. 
fully,"   returned 
I  do?     I  have 
is,  and  I  am  so 
t  do  something; 
f  my  being  able 

nd  your  position, 
ih  it  alone;    but 


^  LITTLE  ROMANCE. 


267 


could  not  your  friends  —  those  interested  in  Made- 
moiselle—  would  not  they  assist  in  carrying  out 
our  plans?" 

"Oh,  no!  please  don't  speak  of  that.  I  could 
not  be  indebted  to  charity  for  my  child's  musical 
education!"  exclaimed  the  invalid  tremulously. 
"There  is  no  one  but  Cousin  Franz  on  whom  I 
have  any  claim,  and  he  is  not  able.  I  could  not 
accept  such  a  favor  from  a  stranger." 

"Would  you  not  accept  a  loan?  It  could  be 
repaid  later."  ' 

"That  would  be  worse  than  charity.  I  should 
not  be  honest  if  I  borrowed  money  which  I  know 
I  could  never  repay." 

"But  your  daughter  could  repay  it  herself," 
urged  the  professor.  "She  has  a  great  future 
before  her,  and  that  means  wealth.  She  will  soon 
be  able  to  earn  money  through  her  own  efforts." 

"I  could  not  have  her  begin  life  hampered  with 
debt.  It  would  be  a  cruelty  to  one  of  her  proud, 
sensitive  nature,"  returned  Louise  decidedly. 

"Then  I  can  think  of  no  means  of  assisting 
Mademoiselle  to  complete  her  studies,"  said  Pro- 
fessor Vortman  a  little  impatiently,  as  he  went 
away. 


,68  iiW'W  rm  uttle  vioumsTE. 

A  little  later,  M«n,ieHr  Narfi  and  tl,o  professor 

were  closeted  in  earnest  conversation,  «hicl.  ended 

by  the  old  bookseller  saying,  "  AV.  W»,  .«»  «»'. 

you  have  done  all   yon  can.      T    wanted   you   to 

Lmd  her  a  little;    1   wanted  to  know  how   she 

wonld    take   it.      Yes,   she   is  proud,  very  proud_ 

She  is  an  honest,  self-respecting  little  woman    and 

I  think  the  more  of  her  for  it;  but  I  must  try  ^ 

,„ake  her  feel  that  she  must  ye"  -me  o    her 
pride   for   the   child's   good    as    well    as    for    her 

"™Smph  had  gone  to  take  tea  with  Madame  St. 
Ma.ent,   and    Louise   was    alone    in   the    tw.hght 
thinking  very  sadly  of  her  interview  "th  P™fe^or 
Vortman,  when  Romeo  knocked  at  her  ^OO'  and 
told  her  that  Monsieur  Nardi  was  waitmg  t«  see 
-  her     "  Ah,  I  am  so  glad ;  t  need  him  30^  a*  *>>« 
moment,"   thought  Louise.    "  I  can  talk  to  htm, 
and  he  will  understand  how  hard  .t  .s  for  me. 

When  the  old  gentleman  entered,  one  quick 
glance  into  the  invalid's  tear^tamed  fa»  told  h.m 
that  she  was  very  unhappy  and  anK,ous.  Poor 
child;  poor  little  woman,"  he  thought;"  she  m« 

not   be   troubled    any  longer,    I    must   take    th,s 
Hotter  in  my  own  hands  and  settle  tt  for  her. 


(NISTE. 


A  LITTLE  ROMANCE. 


269 


nd  tliii  professor 
on,  which  ended 
\  Uen,  won  ami, 
wanted  you  to 
,  know  how  she 
jud,  very  proud, 
ittle  woman,  and 
)ut  I  m\ist  try  to 
leld  some  of  her 
well    as    for    her 

with  Madame  St. 

in  the  twilight, 
iew  with  Professor 

at  her  door,  and 
i^as  waiting  to  see 
d  him  just  at  this 

can  talk  to  him, 
rd  it  is  for  me." 
mtered,   one    quick 
lined  face  told  him 
td  anxious.     "Poor 
.hought;  "she  must 

I    must   take    this 

settle   it  for  her." 


So  he  said  cheerily,  "All  alone?  Seraph  not 
here  ?  C'est  ban  ;  I  want  to  have  a  quiet,  friendly 
talk  with  you,  my  child." 

"How  good  you  are,"  exclaimed  Louise,  her 
face  brightening,  and  a  smile  shining  through  her 
tears.  "  You  must  have  known  that  I  was  in 
trouble  and  needed  a  friend.  Professor  Vortman 
has  been  here  talking  about  our  going  abroad,  and 
I  am  so  worried,  so  perplexed." 

"Yes,  ma  chlre,  yes;  but  don't  let  that  worry 
you.  I  have  arranged  all  that,  and  you  have  only 
to  consent  to  go." 

"  But  the  money,  cher  ami.  Where  is  the 
money  to  come  from?"  asked  Louise,  looking 
puzzled  and  frightened.  Was  her  old  friend  los- 
ing his  senses? 

"The  money?  Oh,  the  money.  Why,  Seraph 
has  the  money.  L'Onde  'Nidas  made  his  will  to- 
day, all  regular,  and  legal,  done  before  a  notary, 
and  left  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  Mademoiselle 
Seraph  Blumenthal  and  her  heirs  forever.  She 
can't  inherit  it  until  Leonidas  Nardi  dies,  and 
that,  I  hope,  will  not  be  for  some  time.  But 
rOncle  'Nidas  has  the  care  of  her  little  fortune, 
and  he  will  constitute  himself  her  guardian,  with 


i:fi  I 
iiHiiiii 


■fli"! 


270  sERArii,  rni'.  inri.E  vioumsTE. 

her  mother's  permission,  of  course,  and  this  same 
Uncle  'Nidas  has  decided  to  send  his  ward  to 
Paris,  to  the  consermtoire,  for  two  or  three  years, 

Louise  was  too  much  surprised  to  find  speech. 
She  could  only  stare  helplessly  at  the  old  book- 
seller, who  was  patting  her  hand  and  laughmg 
softly.  At  length  with  a  sob  she  cried,  "Dear 
friend!  Good,  noble  soul !  Ah,  you  crush  me  with 
your  kindness,  but  I  can't  take  it ;  I  must  not 
'take  it.    We  must  not  rob  you  in  your  old  age. 

'.  Yes,  that's  it.     It's  just  because  I  am  old  that 
I  can  do  this.     I  have  a  nice  little  fortune,  and  I 
have  not  long  to  enjoy  it.     Some  one  must  have 
it  when  I  am  done  with  it,  and  I  have  only  these 
two  children,  just  these  two  in  the  whole  world    o 
'  leave   it  to:     Seraph  and    Marc.     They   are    both 
very  dear  to  me,  and  they  are  mine  because  I  love 
them.     Marc  will  have  my  name,  a  name  I  have 
tried   not  to  disgrace,  and  he  will  succeed  me  in 
-   business,  and  a  nice  little  amount  of  money  beside. 
1  have  divided  it  pretty  equally  between  the  two; 
so,   my    dear    friend,    your    child    is    fairly    inde- 
pendent.     Now  I  only  wait  your  consent  to  go  to 
Paris    with    Seraph.      Professor    Vortman    leaves 


'.INrSTE. 

le,  and  this  same 
snd    his   ward    to 

0  or  three  years, 

1  to  find  speech, 
at  the  old  book- 
nd  and  laughing 
she  cried,  "Dear 
you  crush  me  with 
j   it ;    I  must  not 

in  your  old  age." 
,use  I  am  old  that 
ittle  fortune,  and  I 
Tie  one  must  have 
i  I  have  only  these 
the  whole  world  to 
c.     They   are    both 
nine  because  I  love 
ne,  a  name  I  have 
will  succeed  me  in 
mt  of  money  beside, 
y  between  the  two; 
lild    is    fairly    inde- 
lur  consent  to  go  to 
3r    Vortman    leaves 


A  LITTLE  ROMANCE. 


371 


next  month  for  a  visit  to  Europe;  he  will  take 
charge  of  you,  and  Madame  St.  Maxent  knows  of 
an  excellent  woman  to  serve  you.  A  French 
steamer,  with  good  accommodations,  sails  for  Havre 
from  this  port  early  next  month.  Feeling  sure 
that  you  would  agree  to  my  wishes,  I  took  the 
liberty  to  engage  passage  for  you  and  Seraph  and 
your  maid." 

Louise  looked  around  the  little  room,  at  hii- 
familiar  furniture,  at  her  table  covered  with  her 
pretty  work,  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands 
she  sobbed  convulsively:  "Oh,  my  friend — you 
are  good;  you  are  angelic;  but  it  is  like  tear- 
ing me  up  by  the  roots.  I  am  so  lame  and  help- 
less. How  can  I  leave  my  little  room  where  I 
am  so  comfortable,  so  contented  ?  How  can  I  give 
up  everything  to  go  so  far  from  my  only,  my  best 
friends?" 

A  few  tears  crept  into  the  corners  of  Monsieur 
Nardi's  eyes,  but  he  brushed  them  quickly  away, 
and  said  in  the  sanie  light,  cheerful  tone :  "  ^yez 
tranquilky  ma  chlre ;  calmez-vous.  It  will  not  be 
long,  and  you  will  return  well  and  happy  and  find 
everything  just  as  you  leave  it." 

"How    can   that   be?     I  cannot   expect  to  keep 


VM 


,72  SEA'APff.    THE  LITTIE    VIOUN!STE. 

this   cottage,"    returned   Louiso,    wiping    her    eyen, 
and  trying  to  regain  her  composure. 

i'  Wliy  not  ?  It  is  yours.  Leonidas  Nardi  hought 
this  cottage  a  few  days  ago,  and  to-day  in  his  wdl 
he  left  it  to  you  for  your  life,  to  go  to  beraph  if 
Hhe  survives  you.  Romeo  will  take  care  of  it  dur- 
ing your  absence,  and  when  you  return,  you  will 
jind  your  home  ready  for  you." 

^<  I  don't  understand,  1  can't  under.stand,  how  you 
can  be  so  good  to  us,  who  are  almost  strangers  to 
you,"  said   Louise,  looking   gratefully  into  the   old 

bookseller's  gentle  face.  ,   ,  ^    ,,       ,  . ,, 

Something  in  the  limpid,  troubled  depths  of  her 
eyes  made  him  turn  away  from  their  gaze.    Then 
he  said   softly,  and   almost   solemnly:    "My   chdd 
let  me  tell  you  what  made  my  heart  tender  toward 
«   vou     I  once  had  a  great  sorrow.     I  was  a  boy,  a 
poor,  homely  boy,  but  I  had  a  nature  that  craved 
affection,  and  1  had  no  parents,  no  sisters,  no  one 
to  fill   my    hungry    heart.     Ignorant   and    obscure 
V    though  I  was  I  dared  to  love  one  as  far  above  me 
as  heaven  is  above  earth.     She  never  knew  I  loved 
her,  but  she  did  not   scorn   my  humble   devotion; 
she  was  my  friend,  and  her   goodness  and   purity 
ennobled  me. 


wiping    her    eyes, 
ire. 

idas  Niirdi  bought 
to-day  in  his  will 
,0  go  to  Seraph  if 
tke  care  of  it  dur- 
i  return,  you  will 

iderstand,  how  you 
ilmo8t  strangers  to 
efuUy  into  the  old 

ibled  depths  of  her 
I  their  gaze.    Then 
}innly:    "My  child, 
tieart  tender  toward 
w.     I  was  a  boy,  a 
nature  that  craved 
i,  no  sisters,  no  one 
norant    and    obscure 
)ne  as  far  above  me 
i  never  knew  I  loved 
ly  humble   devotion; 
goodness  and  purity 


/t  1  ITri.l:   ROMANCE. 


Vi 


"  For  her  T  became  ambitious.  I  .studied,  I 
toiled,  I  hoarded,  to  mak(^  myself  worthy  of  her. 
One  day  I  learned  that  she  was  to  marry  the  man 
of  her  choice.  Then,  poor  fooli.sh  boy  that  I  was, 
I  thought  life  was  over  for  me.  My  sun  soemed  to 
have  gone  out  at  noon ;  but  I  struggled  out  of  the 
darkness  and  dared  to  live.  The  memory  of  her 
friendship,  her  kindness,  made  it  possible.  That 
was  more  than  forty  years  ago.  Since  then  for 
her  sake  I  have  loved  all  who  suffer,  and  especially 
you,  my  child;  for  the  woman  I  adored  was  your 
mother,  the  good  and  beautiful  Marie  Paulette." 


t,  a 


I    :: 


^t:,/ 


XXXIV. 

lAEPARATlON.  ( 

u  was  known  that  through  Mon- 
i   S  soon   as  it  was  know  ^^^^^^ 

XX  sieur  Nardi's   generosity  berapn  wd 

.  o  Paris  to  complete  her  musical  education, 

::/;:r::re  anxious  to  assist  her  in  every  ^^^ 

^'''''^^^"         r    .  Madame  St.  Maxent  and  Maurice 
For  some  time  Madame  b  ^^      ^^^^^ 

give  the  little  vio  ^^^  ^^^^^ 

■,„i,.e-e  «.mcate  for  her  he-efit.  ^^^^^^ 

P^fessor  Vortman  and   —  ^ortman  was 

and  soul  into  the  detaas.    Profe  ^^  ^ 

*°— rrp«^icr::lan/a£t.rward 

ri!:-Ma::e.  — ---- 
rririrrrcraiif..^^^^^^ 

was  arranged. 

274 


fi 


that  through  Mon- 
Seraph  was  enabled 
r  musical  education, 
ist  her  in  every  way 

Maxent  and  Maurice 

by  which  they  could 

substantial  token  of 

will,    and    they   had 

ore  her  departure,  a 

laurice  entered    heart 
»rofessor  Yortman  was 
'  once   Seraph  was  to 
a  solo,  and  afterward 
adame  St.  Maxent  had 
.  to  add  the  charm  of 
a  delightful  programme 


PR  EPA  R  A  T/OfiT. 


275 


The  days  preceding   the   sailing   of  the  steamer 
were  busy  days  in   the   little   cottage.     There  was 
so  much  to  do,  and  so  much  to  be  thought  of,  that 
the  poor  little  invalid  was  almost  overwhelmed  with 
the    weight    of    her    new  responsibilities.     In    the 
emergency  Cousin  Franz,  Madame  Arnet,  and  Madge 
came  forward  with  hearty  good  will,  and  did  their 
share  toward  completing  the  arrangements.     Cousin 
Rachel,  with  sensible  forethought,  made  warm  wool- 
len gowns  for  the  invalid,  and  a  thick  cloak  and 
hood   for  Seraph   to   wear   in  stormy   weather    on 
the  deck  of  the  ship;   Cousin  Franz  bought  them 
comfortable  deck  chairs,  and  had  a  hamper  packed 
with  many  little  delicacies  to  tempt  Louise's  feeble 
appetite;   and  Madge  made  them  each  the  handiest 
toilet-cases,  fitted  up  neatly  with  all  the  necessary 
articles.     Every  one  was  interested  and  ready  to  do 
something  to   speed    the   voyagers    on    their  way. 
Cressy  and  Romeo  displayed  much  culinary  skill  in 
making  cakes,  bon-bons,  and  sugared  fruits,  in  such 
large  quantities  that  one  would  have  thought  the 
little  party  bound  for  a  land  where  these  tempting 
edibles  were  unknown ;  and  Marc  spent  all  his  spare 
time  in  going  over  books  for  girls  in  order  to  select 
those  which  he  thought  Seraph  would  like  best. 


::m 


,j6  SERAPH.    THE  UTTLE    yiOUmsTE.  •     ,       ■ 

During  these  preparation,.  Monsieur  Nardi  found 
his  days  full  of  new  duties,  and  son.etxm^  lus  heart 
was  very  heavy  at  the  thought  of  losing  Seraph  f- 
the  dear  little  maid  was  the  sunshine  of  his  We, 
but  he  had  Marc,  and  Marc  was  a  great  comfort 

Tteboy  was  developing  well.     He  had  refined 
perceptions   and    intuitions,   and    such   a  retentive 
memory  that  he  proHted  by  all  he  heard  and  saw^ 
Maurice  St.  Maxent  was  his  6e««  i«  of  boyj* 
perfection-,  therefore  he  tried  to  be  as  inuch  like 
him  as  he  possibly  could,  and  Monsieur  Nardi  en- 
couraged him  in  all  his  little  ambitions.    A  father 
was  !ever  more  devoted  to  an  only  son  than  was 
the    old   bookseller  to   the    son    of    his    adopt^n. 
Their    affection    and    admiration    tor    each    other 
seemed    to    equalize,    in    a    manner,   their   years. 
■  Marc  became  more  mature  in  order  to  reach  up 
to  his  benefactor,  and  Uncle  'Nidaa,  m  his  happi- 
ness, was  often  boyishly  bright  and  companionable. 
When   Patsy  saw  them  walking  on  the  levee, 
side  by  side,  as  they  often  did,  talking  earnestly 
:^  inamately,  he  would  say  to  himsel    in  mute 
admiration,  "He   is  as  fine   a  lad  as  J    he  had 
been  born  in  a  palace.     Who  would  o    thought 


rsTE.  :• 

ir  Nardi  found 
times  his  heart 
ing  Seraph,  for 
le  of  his  life; 
great  comfort 

He  had  refined 
ch   a  retentive 
heard  and  saw. 
ideal  of  boyish 
e  as  much  like 
isieur  Nardi  en- 
tions.     A  father 
ly  son  than  was 
f    his    adoption, 
for    each    other 
ler,   their    years, 
ier  to  reach  up 
as,  in  his  happi- 
d  companionable, 
ig  on  the  levee, 
talking  earnestly 
himself  in  mute 
ad  as  if    he  had 
would  o'   thought 


PREPARATION. 


2TJ 


that  a  poor  little  kid  like  he  was  could  o'  made 
hisself  all  over  in  a  few  years.  I'm  proud  of  him, 
that  I  am,  an'  we're  jes'  as  chummy  as  ever.  He 
ain't  spoilt  a  bit  'cause  he  goes  to  school  an'  - 
wears  good  togs.  I  al'ays  know'd  he'd  make  a 
fine  man,  an'  be  a  credit  to  me." 

Patsy  felt  a  sort  of  ownership  in  Marc,  seeing 
that  he  had  been  the  guide  and  protector  of  his 
infancy,  and  had  taught  hin^  the  rudiments  of 
the  knowledge  which  was  leading  to  such  lofty 
results;  and  he  scarcely  allowed  a  day  to  pass 
without  congratulating  the  boy  on  his  good  fortune 
in  finding  such  a  friend  as  Monsieur  Nardi,  usually 
ending  his  kindly  comments  with  the  same  little 
set  phrase:  "I  al'ays  know'd  you'd  make  a  man, 
if  you  only  had  half  a  chance." 

Not  long  before  the  soiree  musicale,  and  just 
when  Louise  was  debating  in  her  mind  what  toi- 
lette would  be  suitable  for  the  little  violiniste  to 
wear  on  the  important  occasion,  Madame  St.  Max- 
ent  called  in  her  carriage  and  took  Seraph  away 
to  Hortense,  a  fashionable  modiste,  the  same  Hor- 
tense  who  sold  the  silver  jewel  box  that  belonged 
to  Lady  Jane's  mother. 

"  Here  is  a  iittie  friend,"  said  Madame  St.  Max- 


278 


SERAril,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 


ent  pleasantly,  when  Hortense  entered,  all  smiles 
and  bows,  "for  whom  I  want  a  white  costume  — 
all  white  — and  the  daintiest  and  prettiest  that  can 
be  made.  It  must  be  a  very  simple  and  a  very 
artistic  creation.  I'm  sure  you  understand  per- 
fectly, and  know  exactly  what  I  wish." 

"Will  Mademoiselle  please  to  remove  her  hat?" 
And  Hortense  stood  off  and  examined  Seraph  criti- 
cally, who,  under  the  close  scrutiny,  blushed  a  soft 
pink  over  all  her  delicate  little  face. 

"Mademoiselle's  coloring  is  uncommon,  but  it 
is  charming.  Golden  hair,  brown  eyes,  and  a 
clear,  pale  complexion;  but  in  the  evemng,  with 
artificial  light  and  a  little  excitement,  she  will 
be  pink,  as  she  is  now.  Well,  we  will  select 
pure  white  chiffon,  over  a  white  surah  slip,  white 
dlk    stockings,    and    white    shoes    of    qvos    gram 

silk,"  .      „       ., 

"  I  should  think  that  would  be  charming,     said 

Madame  St.  Maxent  approvingly. 

"  And  would  Madame  like  tiny  buckles  of  rhine- 
stone  on  the  shoes?"  a.sked  Hortense,  walking 
around,  and  looking  at  Seraph  from  another  point 

of  view.  „ 

"  Not  the  buckles,  please,  chlre  madame,     whis- 


,i|!l' 


NISTE. 

ered,  all  smiles 
^hite  costume  — 
rettiest  that  can 
iple  and  a  very 
understand  per- 
(Tish." 

move  her  hat?" 
ined  Seraph  criti- 
y,  blushed  a  soft 

ce. 

icommon,  but  it 
«rn  eyes,  and  a 
lie  evening,  with 
tement,  she  will 
i,  we  will  select 
surah  slip,  white 
s    of    gros    grain 

e  charming, 

buckles  of  rhine- 
3ortense,  walking 
rom  another  point 

ce  madame, 


PREPARATION. 


Wf!^ 


pered  Seraph.  "I  know  mamma  would  not  like 
me  to  wear  them." 

Madame   St.    Maxent   smiled    indulgently.     "No, 

no   buckles;    plain  white   shoes,  —  not   slippers, 

tied  with  a  tiny  bow  on  the  instep;  and  the 
frock  is  to  be  high,  and  the  sleeves  long,  very 
simple  and  childlike." 

"  Old,  oui,  madame;  I  understand  perfectly. 
Mademoiselle  will  be  charming  in  the  toilette  I 
shall  send  her.  It  will  be  a  dream,  a  perfect 
dream." 

Then  Madame  St.  Maxent  walked  apart  with 
Hortense,  and  gave  her  some  orders  in  a  low 
voice:  "A  costume  du  voyage,  —  frock,  hat,  and 
coat;  take  the  measure  now,  and  send  it  with  the 
white  toilette.  I  wish  the  color  to  be  brown. 
Select  the  material  you  think  the  most  suitable; 
but  simple,  very  simple." 

After  Madame  St.  Maxent  finished  her  business 
with  Hortense,  she  took  Seraph  home  with  her, 
in  order  that  she  and  Maurice  might  practise  the 
duet  for  the  soiree  musicale.  Professor  Vortman 
was  there  to  play  an  accompaniment,  and  after 
they  had  rehearsed  each  part  over  and  over,  until 
they  played  it  without  a  fault,  they  lunched  mer- 


it i 


.1 

SEKAell,   THE  Lnil.r- 

t  *>,P  irallery,  and  while  they 
rily    i„  a  corner  of  «-  l^f^f  5-'  .^^^  ^^^^ 

W>od  and  —  -'I'^tTi^  iasmine,  tanned 
,o£t  wind,  ragvant  ««  J  ^^^  ^^^^^^^ 
them,  and  happy  birfa  fl»tlered  8  ^^^ 

Hinging  as  though  life  were  all  sprmg, 

and  joy.  ( 


isrE. 


[id  while  they 
i  and  ices,  the 
jasmine,  fanned 
,ng  the  flowers, 
tng,  and  youth, 


XXXV. 


A   SOIREE   MUSICALE. 


"T^THEN  Seraph  was  dressed  for  the  soiree  musi- 


vv 


cale,  in  the  dainty  white  costume  that  Madame 


St.  Maxent  had  ordered  for  her,  she  looked  like  a 
lovely  little  fairy.  The  soft  folds  of  chiffon  clung 
to  her  slender  figure  like  the  silken  down  of  a 
thistle;  her  small,  usually  pale  face  was  flushed  a 
tender  pink,  and  her  beautiful  hair  hung  below  her 
waist  like  a  veil  of  spun  gold. 

Madame  Blumenthal  was  delighted  with  the 
delicate  richness  and  refinement  of  Madame  St. 
Maxent's  selection.  It  suited  her  artistic  taste, 
and  enhanced  the  beauty  and  grace  of  the  child. 
Cressy  and  Romeo  were  as  interested  in  Seraph's 
appearance,  as  though  they  were  to  assist  at  the 
important  function,  and  their  expressions  of  ad- 
miration were  original  as  well  as  forcible.  "Miss 
Seraph,  honey,  yer  suttenly  does  look  like  yer  jes' 
wants  wings  ter  fly  away,"  cried  Romeo,  clasping 
his  gnarled  old  hands  reverently.     "I's  neber  seed 


281 


mmmmmm 


tsma 


282  SERAPH,    THE  LITTLE    VIOLINISTE. 

a  live  angel,  or  no  oder  angel,  ter  tell  der  trufe, 
'til  jes'  dis  yere  min'it,  an'  I  neber  s'pects  ter  see 
anuder  'til  I's  done  got  ter  heaben.  Now,  Miss 
Cressy,  don't  yer  'gree  wid  me  dat  my  lit  1  Miss 
am  a  mighty  lubely  chile?"  ^^ 

^'Yes,  Romeo,  yes,  die  est  charmante.  And 
Cressy's  grim  old  face  relaxed  in  a  smile  of  com- 
plete  satisfaction.  "  She  will  do  Monsieur  Leonidas, 
and  all  of  us,  a  great  deal  of  credit." 

Then  Uncle  'Nidas  had  to  be  brought  m  to  look 
at  the  little  fairy.  '^  Trh  Uen;  trls  hien.  It  is 
wonderful.  Ah,  cherie,  what  can  I  say  ?  You  are 
perfect,  simply  perfect."  And  Monsieur  Nardi  s 
happy  face  showed  his  pride  and  gratification. 

When  he  returned  to  his  shop  he  remarked  that 
there  was  only  one  thing  lacking  in  the  perfection 
of  Seraph's  toilette,  and  he  suggested  to  Marc  that 
he  ought  to  present  his  little  friend  with  a  bunch 
of  flowers.    The  boy  needed  only  a  hint ;  hasten- 
ing off  to  a   fashionable  florist,  he   soon  returned 
with  a  cluster  of  lovely  white  rose-buds,  which  he 
presented  to  Seraph,  blushing  furiomly.     He  was 
unaccustomed  to  the  little   amenities  of   life,  but 
he  took  to  them  gracefully  and  naturally. 

Madame  St.  Maxent  sent  her  carriage  early   for 


naity"  """"'*"'**  """'^  I 


fSTE. 

ell  der  trufe, 
s'pects  tor  see 
I.  Now,  Miss 
my  Ut'r   Miss 

^mtey      And 

smile  of  com- 

isieur  Leonidas, 

ight  in  to  look 
fls   hien.     It   is 
say?    You  are 
onsieur    Nardi's 
ratification. 
!  remarked  that 
D  the  perfection 
jd  to  Marc  that 
d  with  a  bunch 
a  hint;  hasten- 
e   soon  returned 
j-buds,  which  he 
loudy.     He  was 
ties  of   life,  but 
aturally. 
Eirriage  early   for 


tmffMitfB'ff***''**  '^ 


A  soikAe  musicale. 


383 


the  little  party,  so  that  Louise  could  be  assisted 
in  and  comfortably  seated  before  the  other  guests 
arrived. 

"  We  are  off  at  last,"  cried  Seraph  joyfully,  as 
the  caniage  turned  into  Rue  Royale.  '•  I  am  so 
glad ;  I  want  to  be  there ;  I  want  to  play.  My 
fingers  are  impatient  to  begin.  You  will  hear. 
Uncle  'xNidas,  you  will  Xxh-ax,  petite  mnmmi,  how  well, 
how  beautifully,  I  shall  play.  With  all  the  flowers, 
and  the  lights,  and  the  toilettes  du  soir,  it  will  be 
like  my  old  concerts,  and  I  shall  be  just  as  happy 
as  when  I  wore  a  train  and  played  for  Romeo, 
while  he  sat  under  the  oleander  and  threw  flowers 
to  me  when  I  finished." 

When  they  arrived  at  Madame  St.  Maxent's  the 
children  were  wildly  excited  at  the  festive  appear- 
ance of  the  beautiful  house  and  grounds. 

"  Chinese  lanterns  among  the  trees  and  flowers  !  " 
cried  Marc,  thrusting  his  head  out  of  the  carriage 
window  to  get  a  better  view. 

"  And  the  house  is  a  blaze  of  light ;   it  looks  like  . 
a  palace   of  rose  and  yellow  crystal!"   exclaimed 
Seraph  enraptured. 

"Ah,  it  is  like  fairy-land!"  said  Louise.  Some 
of  the  glamour  of  old  days  was  upon  her,  and   it 


li 


& 


m 


t 

m 


,8^  s,<M'i/.  rm  urns  ywumsra. 

.«„e,l  as  if  it  were  -he.  and  n..t  her  child.  »ho 

v,a»  to  appe.ar  before  an  expectant  aud.ence. 

;     „  tLy  entered  the  great  salon,  where  they 

Je  Lived  by  Madame  St,  Maxent  and  Manr.ce 
ey   glanced   aronnd   a   little   tin.idly.  a hno-t  b. 
:  1  e.ed   by   the  light,  the  color,  the  gl.tte  ,  O. 
perfume    of    flower,,   spread    and  twmed  and  tes 
L  l"d  over  every  available  place ;  the  nch  drapery, 
Tpicture,  and  rare  ornaments,  and  Madam    St^ 

Max!nt,  herself,  looking  '^^  ^  ^''T^'l^^Z^ 
„t  yellow  satin,  her  cor,.age  and  dark  ha.r  spar 

klinir  with  diamonds.  ,    •     u^« 

"il"    my  dear  friends,"  she  exela.med,  m  her 
„.arm,  ch  Jy  tones,  "  I  am  so  l-PPy  t«  rece.ve  you 
Come  to  this  comfortable  comer.    Here  s  an  easy 
lat  Placed  expressly  for  our  clCere  ri^i.  mvaUd, 
lud  al,er,  a'chair  of  state,  for  ^  a».,  n.o. 
,ie«r,the  scholar-,  and  Marc,  who  w.U  want  to  see 
r       i  ile  friend  to  the  best  advantage,  can  take 
this  1!L  rthe  other  side  of  Madame  Blumen- 

"t:  .Hat  moment  a--/;j;"r^„r: 

Franz    Madame  Arnet,  and  Maage.      v. 

i^ranz,  mau  ^ipnified   as   a   mmister 

looked  as  prosperous  and  dignihea 

who  is  winning  popularity  ought  to.     And 


A  SO/K^.H  AfUSlCALE. 


HSTE. 

her  child,  who 
audience, 
on,  where  they 
it  and  Maurice, 
tlly,   ahnost  be- 

the  glitter,  the 
twined  and  fes- 
he  ricli  drapery, 
md  Madame  St. 
ueen  in  a  gown 

dark  hair  spar- 

■xclaimed,  in  her 
py  to  receive  you. 

Here  is  an  easy- 
ere  petite  invalid, 
»r  mon  ami,  mon- 
,  will  want  to  see 
vantage,  can  take 

Madame  Blumen- 

)  entered,— Cousin 
ge.  Cousin  Franz 
fied  as  a  minister 
t  to.     And  Cousin 


2«5 


Rachel  wore  one  of  IIortense'H  most  arti.«(tic  cos- 
tumes of  mauve  .satin  and  black  lace,  while  Madge 
was  a  picture  of  modesty  and  simplicity  in  a  simple 
white  frock,  her  little  fawn-colored  head  as  sleek 
and  glossy  as  her  mother's  gown. 

Madarne  St.  Maxent  met  them  with  the  same 
chartning  cordiality:  "Now,  my  friends,  our  little 
group  is  complete.  Here  are  seats  for  you  near 
our  dear  invalid;  I  know  you  will  enjoy  being 
together.  Very  soon  the  rooms  will  be  crowded, 
and  I  may  not  be  able  to  get  near  you.  It  is  to 
be  a  great  occasion,"  she  whi.spered  to  Cousin 
Franz.  "  I  have  invited  every  one.  I  have  in- 
terested all  my  friends.  Tliere  are  to  be  no  tickets. 
You  see,  they  all  know  it  is  a  benefit  for  our  dear 
little  violiniste,  and  I  leave  it  to  the  generosity 
of  my  guests  to  give  what  they  please.  I  have 
placed  a  pretty  basket,  not  too  small,  on  that  table 
near  the  door  where  Maurice's  tutor  is  sitting. 
Every  one  can  deposit  in  it  what  he  or  she  is 
willing  to  give.  Ah!  I  am  sure  when  they  hear 
the  chh'e  petite  play,  they  will  all  empty  their 
pockets.     I  am  expecting  a  perfect  ovation." 

Madame  St.  Maxent  had  given  Seraph  one 
admiring  glance.      She  had   been  so  occupied   re- 


1 

i 


•m 


ill 


liii 


I 


Mninw 


ftmuaotir-:  - 


■l! 


HT 


3.S6 


s/:A\ir//,  rill:  iittie  viouxiste. 


H  i 

■J  ! 


lii 


I 


I' 


coiving  hor   gue8t»*    that    she    ha.l    ha.l    tu.    oppor- 
tunity to   express  her  satisfaction  with   llortense's 
creation.      Now  she  turned   to  the  child,  who  was 
talking  with  Maurice,  and  said  gaily,  "Ah!  made- 
moiselle, you  are  charming!    you  are  a  dream!     I 
am  satistied.     It  is   all   perfect.     Now,    my   young 
artists,  you  must  go  to  the  music-room  before  our 
other  guests  arrive.     When    every   one   is   quietly 
Heated,  this  curtain  will  be  drawn,"  she  said,  pomt- 
iug  to  the  rich  portihe  which  separated  the  music- 
room  from  the  salon,  "  and  the  music  will  begin. 
After  the  concert  there  will  be  an  informal  recep- 
tion and  a  little  supper,  et  voilh  tov.tr 

When   Seraph   and    Maurice   entered   the    music- 
room,   they   found    Professor   Vortman   pacing   the 
floor  a  little  nervously.     It  was  a  very  important 
occasion  to  him ;  two  of  his  most  promising  pupils 
were  to  play  for  the  first  time  before  an  audience, 
and    he   was   anxious   for  his  own   reputation,   as 
well   as   for  theirs,  that  they  should  acquit  them- 
selves with  distinction. 

"  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  with  pleased  surprise.    "  When  you  appear  before 
your  audience,  they  will  think  they  see  Queen  Titania.' 
Seraph   smiled;    she  did  not  know  who   Queen 


'SSSSBSSCSSKJie 


fS'tSTE. 

had    !i()    oppor- 
with   llortense's 

child,  who  was 
ily,  •*  Ah  !  made- 
ire  a  dream  !     I 
Now,   my   young 
-ruom  before  our 
f   one   is   quietly 
"  she  said,  point- 
irated  the  nuisic- 
muHic  will  begin, 
n  informal  recep- 
touty 

itered  the  music- 
•tman  pacing  the 
a  very  important 
;  promising  pupils 
efore  an  audience, 
ivn  reputation,  as 
ould  acquit  them- 

,  mademoiselle,"  he 
n  you  appear  before 
see  Queen  Titania." 
know  who   Queen 


A   SOlRiF.   MVSICALS, 


tfi; 


Titania  was,  but  she  felt  that  hies  master  was 
plcaHod  with  her  appearance. 

'•  Yes,  they  will  think  they  see  Queen  Titania, 
but  they  will  know  that  they  hear  an  angel," 
returned  Maurice,  with  boyish  gallantry.  "  Now, 
8orai)h,  let  us  get  our  fiddles  and  see  that  they 
are  in  tune  while  wo  are  waiting  for  the  crowd 
to  be  seated.  Just  hear  how  they  are  rushing  in ! 
What  a  hubbub  a  lot  of  people  make!  Mamma's 
friends  nuist  have  turned  out  in  full  force." 

Near  the  piano  was  a  platform,  just  high  enough 
so  that  those  at  the  far  end  of  the  salon  could  see 
the  young  violinists.  It  was  covered  with  a  rich 
rug,  and  ornamented  with  jars  of  growing  palms, 
their  dark,  glos.sy  foliage  making  a  lovely  back- 
ground for  the  slender  white  figure  with  its  veil 
of  golden  hair.  On  the  platform  was  a  table 
draped  with  a  silken  cover,  and  at  one  corner 
stood  a  large  Eastern  jar  filled  with  rare  flowers ; 
near  the  jar  lay  Seraph's  violin. 

"  Come,  mademoiselle,"  said  Maurice  laughingly. 
"Allow  me."  And  taking  Seraph  by  the  finger- 
tips, he  led  her  on  to  the  little  stage. 

Professor  Vortman  came  forward,  watching  every 
movement  eagerly. 


,88  SEJ^APH.   THE  UTTLE    VWLWISTE. 

..How    beautiful    everything    is!"    Seraph    .■^■ 

:;tU"tro:S— .--■: 

p      With  one   bewildered   glance   she  cried, 
presence.     With  one  ^^^^, 

"This  is    papa's   viohn !     this    is    i^ue 
Where  did  it  come  from?     How  am       g 

1       1  .^  «  little  to  hide  his  emotion,  and 
Maurice  laughed  a  little  to  n m 

holding  out  his  hand  with  ^^^ ^^^^^^^^Zt^ 
..  I  .„>  the  good  fa.ry  "»»  ^f  >  /  J^  j  p,,^„,  ,, 
for  it,  I  found  it,  I  bought  it,  and  now  i  p  ^^ 
to  Mademoiselle  with  my  Hfe-long  devotion- 

Seraph  could  ..ot   speak.     She   eould  ,^t  tak 
him  w  th  words,  and  she  did  not  w.sh  h  m  to  ^e 
Ctlrs  that  started  to  her  e^es  •,  tears  of  -  ^^^^^ 
iov  and  gratitude.    Holding  the  v.olm  m  her  arms, 

TeUa  away  her  — .   -'j-^^ 
to    recover    her    composure.     When 
eeeded,  she  said  sweetly  and  simply  .^ 

"This  makes  me  perfectly  happy-     i  y 

^  Ml  to  thank  you  now,  M^-^' "^J 
play  the  allegro  in  my  solo,  you  wdl  know  how 

Ld  I  am  to  have  my  dear  violm  agam- 

K  half.hour  later,  when  the  large  ;«<";;-- 

Jed  and  the  murmur  of  voices  had  softened  t 


VIOUNISTE. 

,g    is!"     Seraph    ex- 
eyes    to   M.iurice,   as 
le   table.      Before   she 
mched  it,  she  felt   its 
n-ed   glance   she  cried, 
tis    is    the    del    Gesu'. 
low  did  it  get  here?" 
3  hide  his  emotion,  and 
boyish   frankness,   said, 
ut  it  there.     I  searched 
tt,  and  now  1  present  it 
fe-long  devotion." 

She  could  not  thank 
lid  not  wish  him  to  see 
f  eyes ;  tears  of  mingled 
r  the  violin  in  her  arms, 
mlous  face,  trying  hard 
e.  When  she  had  suc- 
nd  simply- 

tly  happy.     My  heart  is 
,w,  Maurice,  but  when  I 
olo,  you  will  know  how 
ear  violin  again." 
a  the  large    audience  was 
3f  voices  had  softened  to 


A  SOIRAe  MUSICALE. 


289 


expectant  whispers,  the  curtain  was  drawn  aside, 
and  Professor  Vortman  played  a  selection  from 
Liszt  with  great  success.  Then  Madame  Estr^s 
sang  a  new  song,  and  afterward  the  little  violiniste 
appeared  amid  deafening  applause. 

Madame  St.  Maxent's  guests  thought  they  had 
never  seen  a  prettier  picture  than  she  made  when 
Maurice  led  her  on  to  the  stage,  and  they  certainly 
had  never  listened  to  more  delicious  strains  than 
the  child  drew  from  the  wonderful  instrument. 
When  she  came  to  the  allegro  in  her  solo,  she 
pressed  her  little  inspired  face  closer  to  the  violin, 
which  fairly  throbbed  with  joy.  It  was  like  exul- 
tant heavenly  voices,  a  whole  choir  of  child  angels 
singing  songs  of  praise  and  thanksgiving. 

Maurice  understood  it,  and  felt  the  child's  grati- 
tude to  be  stronger  than  words  could  express,  and 
the-  audience  listened  spell-bound.  As  the  last  ten- 
der, delicate  strain  died  away,  the  violin  slipped  from 
her  shoulder,  the  bow  hung  loosely  in  her  fingers, 
while  she  glanced  around  like  one  just  awakened 
from  a  delightful  dream,  her  eyes  wide  and  full  of 
light,  and  her  lips  smiling  tremulously.  Then  bowing 
timidly  and  gracefully,  she  took  Maurice's  hand  and 
turned  P,way  amid  an  enthusiastic  burst  of.  applause. 


v-i 


,^  SERAPH.   THE  UTTLE  VlOUmSTE. 

There  .as  .notl.er  selection  ^^ ^^"^^l^X. 
,„a„,a„aa.„„.o.singi„g»aby        t..e.h^ 

in  perfect  harmony,  and  with    mnch    aei      j 

"Tf  "e  St  Ma^ent  was  delighted,  and  her  guests 
Madame  St.  Maxem  wa         s  violiniste. 

were  wildly  enthusiastic  ove     »>«  >'">^  J  ^ 

..What  genius',  what  feeling    what  vigor .J^ 
.      1     Tt  is  remarkable !  wonderful  —  angelic .     was 
touch.   It'^^'^'"*'  J    „^  ^„  unheard-of  sue 

::!:  tHS—  and  -v-nt -^ -• ; 

who  received  the  P-"y  ""X  '""l^TZ^,   heart 

::::rrl^Uy  and  self  sai^-^ 

Tbe  soiree  mwsicaZe  was  a  success  m  many  w  y 
!         ho  sat  near  the  basket,  already   gener- 

^\  Tu  :i    riTp  bank  notes,  noticed  that  many 
ItClhli  given  when  they  entered,  r. 

Ln^  to  make  an  additional  offermg. 

?.^  ^f     Maxent  was   much  pleased   at  the 

Madame  St.   Maxeni  ^^^ 

o  «f  Vipr  Dlan,  and  tlie   nexi.   ucvj 
;C:gr:;  ^011 'of  notes  in  Louise's  hand,  she 


■,a88W»**«»**"' 


■ill! 


ISTE. 

'rofessor  Vort- 
that  tin\e  the 
iolin  duet  by 
jred  exquisitely, 
eh    delicacy    of 

,  and  her  guests 
little   violiniste. 
•  vigor!  what  a 
—  angelic!"  was 
I  unheard-of  suc- 
jry    one    present 
iment  the   child, 
lat   were  said  to 
Her   little    heart 
it    emotions    that 
self-satisfaction. 
iss  in  many  ways. 
:et,  already   gener- 
oticed  that  many 
they  entered,  re- 
offering. 

ch  pleased  at  the 
ext  day  when  she 
Louise's  hand,  she 


A   SOIR&E  MUSICALE. 


291 


said,  as  if  the  money  were  a  matter  of  no  conse- 
quence: ''A  nice  little  sum  to  help  Seraph  through, 
but  it  is  the  smallest  part  of  the  success.  She  made 
a  reputation  last  night  that  will  last,  and  when  she 
returns,  people  will  throng  to  hear  her  play.  I  am 
satisfied,  and  so  is  Professor  Vortman.  He  says  her 
future  success  is  assured,  and  that  is  all  we  can  ask." 

A  few  days  after  the  soiree  mimcale  a  sad-faced 
little  group  stood  on  one  of  the  wharves  watching 
a  great  ocean  steamer  pull  out  into  the  river. 
They  had  come  to.  say  good-by  to  Madame  Blu- 
menthal  and  Seraph,  who  sat  on  the  deck  beside 
Professor  Vortman,  looking  with  tearful  eyes  toward 
the  shore. 

Poor  Louise  looked  pale  and  dejected.  She 
dreaded  going  out  into  the  great  unknown,  and 
her  heart  lingered  in  her  little  home,  and  clung  to 
those  she  loved  and  was  leaving.  And  Seraph 
was  trying  to  appear  bright  and  happy  as  she 
waved  her  handkerchief  and  called  au  revoir  as 
long  as  her  sweet  voice  could  reach  their  ears. 

"Parting  is  bitter  sorrow,"  said  Madame  St. 
Maxent,  a  little  dolefully,  "but  I  always  comfort 
myself  with  the  thought  of  meeting  again." 


il    ! 


,,^SS«iWJi«»lW»-^' 


.„r    I  riTLE    VIOLINISTE. 
SERAPH,    THE  LllTLE 


J\  I 


.   A     .V.at    will    be    before    long,"    remarked 
"And    that    win    ue  ^ 

Maurice,  his  eye,  Wlow.ng  the  ^.P^      Yo 

this  morning  that  we  .hould  be  m  Par.s 

months."  ^  ^      „    g^^ie^  Madame 

u  Vo«  that  is  my  ntention  now,     repueu 
St  M::e!::Va„a^I  shon,a  not  wonder  i.  we  spent 
the  next  two  or  three  y--  ^^^^.^^  ,.^  „ext 
.It  is  my  '»'-*'»\*°f ;;,!„„  to  look  eheer- 

looking  at  Cousm  Fra».  .^  ^^^^,^  ^^ 

Seraph  are  there  pleasant,"     returned 

peering  over  the  rail  ot  ^^^^^ 

indistinct  Hots,  -*  »*  ;";:^   ^„ai„i„g    until 
::\r:re  rtirla^er    haa    aisappearea 

aa^una  the  bend  in  the  river. 


..M^nm^f^ 


l--'-T-«.^.'C».;''t: 


ISTE. 


g,"  remarked 
p,  «You  said 
Paris  in  a  few 


replied  Madame 
der  if  we  spent 

i." 

other  trip  next 
r  to  look  cheer- 
oUection  by  that 

I  Madame  Amet, 
.rnet's  father  has 
link  it  would  be 
lousin  Louise  and 

iasant,"     returned 
like    to    see    the 

rated,  for  the  faces 
tner  were  becoming 
ent  his  way  sadly, 
c   remaining    until 
r    had    disappeared 


XXXVI. 

A    LETTER   FROM    PARIS. 

■jV/TONSIEUR  NARDI  had  just  received  a  letter 
from  Paris,  from  Madame  Blumenthal,  and 
Madge  had  come  in  to  hear  the  news. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  rubbing 
his  hands  gleefully.  "They  are  already  on  their 
way,  and  they  ought  to  be  here  about  the  first  of 
next  month.  You  see  they  had  to  come  by  the 
way  of  New  York,  because  Madame  St.  Maxent 
and  Maurice  won't  travel  by  our  line  of  steamers. 
They're  slow,  too  slow,  and  it  is  very  nice  for 
Louise  and  Seraph  to  travel  in  their  company." 

"And  is  Cousin  Louise  still  improving?"  asked 
Madge. 

"  Oh  yes,  she  improves  every  day.  When  I  left 
Paris  — let  me  see— that's  more  than  a  year  ago " 

"Yes,"  said  Madge;  "it  is  a  year  and  a  half, 
for  we  returned  just  before  you  did." 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  is.  I  can't  keep  up  with 
Time.     He  has  wings,  and  I  have  only  feet,  and  it 

393 


:]; 


i«itt«8l<«-l 


n 


*. 


jg4  SEKAPH.   THE  LITTLE    VIOUXISTE. 

is  hard  to  make  .oyxeU  believe  that  they  have  been 
gone  three  years.     However,  as  I  was  saying,  wnen 
I  left  Paris,  Louise  was  just  b.,ginning  to  stand 
without  any  support.    Poor  little  woman!  how  fc- 
lighted  she  was  when  she  conld  take  a  tew  steps. 
Seraph  on  one  side  and  I  on  the  other.     Now  she 
can  walk  short  distances  without  help.    The  cur^ 
is  slow,  very  slow,  but  Doctor  Duplan  says  she  wdl 
be  perfectly  well  in  a  year  or  so." 

jlt  then  Marc  came  in, -a  tall,  pleasant-faced 
M,  who  blushed  and  looked  a  little  shy  when  he 
greeted    Madge.     They  ha.1   become    fast    £r,en 
during    Seraph's    absence,   and    as    Madge   bought 
he.  books  and  stationery  at  Monsieur  Nard.s  shop, 
they  saw  eaeh  other  frequently.    And  sometimes 
m1  came  to  take  tea  with  them,  and  talk    ooks 
with  Cousin  Franz,  who  had  taken  a  great  mterest 
in  the  bright,  clever  boy,  while  Madge,  who  was 
crowing  up  a  nice,  intelligent  girl,  sat  near  and  Ls- 
Tened  attentively.   The  six  months  she  had  passed  m 
Europe,  the  greater  part  of  the  time  bemg  spent  .n 
Oermlny,.aveUera„ewi„^e.sti„^e-^^; 
and  she  now  bids  fair  to  make  as  gooa 
as  Cousin  Franz  predicted  she  would  before  she  took 
it  into  her  stubborn  little  head  to  be  a  module. 


mmmimi* 


A  LETTER  FROM  P.tR/S. 


n% 


y  have  been 
saying,  when 
ng   to   stand 
lan!  how  de- 
a  few  steps, 
r.     Now  she 
X     The   cure 
says  she  will 

pleasant-faced 
shy  when  he 

fast    friends 
ladge   bought 

Nardi's  shop, 
nd  sometimes 
,nd  talk  books 

great  interest 
idge,  who  was 
b  near  and  lis- 
e  had  passed  in 
being  spent  in 
1  the  language, 
good  a  scholar 
before  she  took 
a  modiste. 


After  Madge  had  talked  a  few  moments  with 
Marc,. she  turned  to  Monsieur  Nardi,  and  said,  in 
a  very  satisfied  voice,  "  Oh !  but  I  have  some  good 
news  to  tell  you.  Papa's  congregation  have  de- 
cided to  build  him  a  handsome  new  church;  and 
it's  to  be  on  a  fashionable  street.  You  know  so 
many  rich  people  have  come  in  that  we  are  not 
as  poor  as  we  once  were,  and  the  old  church  is 
far  too  small  for  our  congregation." 

"  Ah !  that  does  not  surprise  me,"  returned  Mon- 
sieur Nardi,  his  good  old  face  reflecting  Madge's 
satisfaction.  "  I  knew  it  would  come  soon.  Recog- 
nition and  appreciation  are  sure  to  follow  talent 
and  industry.     Yes,  yes,  I  knew  it  would  come." 

"Papa  certainly  does  deserve  his  popularity;  he 
works  so  hard,  and  is  so  good  and  conscientious," 
said  Madge  proudly.  «I  don't  think  his  people 
can  do  too  much  for  him."  Then  she  turned  again 
to  the  subject  of  the  letter.  "Well,  I  suppose 
Seraph  has  received  her  diploma  and  medal  from 
the  Conservatoire,  and  is  now  a  full-fledged  pro- 
fessor of  the  violin." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  she  has,"  replied  Monsieur  Nardi, 
with  the  greatest  satisfaction,  "and  she  is  the 
youngest   pupil  who  has  ever  received  such  marks 


11! 


\[ 


B 


\  jtJS'crWi^ikfc-j.--^ 


j: 


ii-i 


li 


H 

If 


296 


SEKAP/l,    THE  LITTLE    VIOI.INISTE. 


of  distinction.  Professor  Vortman  wrote  me  of  a 
wirh  mmicale  given  by  Madame  St.  Maxent,  when 
the  most  distinguished  people  in  the  American 
colony,  as  well  as  many  of  the  French  and  English 
aristocracy,  with  a  number  of  famous  composers 
and  professors,  heard  her  play,  and  she  had  a  great 
success,  a  great  success.  They  were  enthusiastic 
about  her,  and  predicted  the  most  brilliant  career 
for  her.  Ah !  she  is  a  lovely,  talented  child.  How 
can  we  expect  to  keep  such  a  rare  creature  in 
this  obscure  little  cottage?" 

"  By  the  way,"  laughed  Madge,  "  have  the  work- 
men completed  the  renovation  of  the  '  obscure  little 
cottage'?  If  they  have,  and  you  do  not  object, 
mamma  and  I  would  like  to  superintend  putting 
it  in  order.  You  know  women  understand  the 
needs  of  women  so  much  better  than  men  do." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear;  that  is  kind  and 
thoughtful  of  you.  Marc  and  I  have  done  the 
best  we  could;  but  you  and  your  mother  will 
understand  just  how  Louise  and  the  child  will  like 
to  find  things.  I  want  it  all  to  be  just  as  they 
left  it,  as  far  as  it  is  possible.  It  will  seem  more 
like  coming  home.  Step  into  the  garden  and  see 
what    has    been  done  there.      Romeo  and  Cressy 


i,(BieMuiii«>i.».fj&^ 


-I'-wv 


ISTE. 

>vrote  me  of  a 
Maxent,  when 
the  American 
ih  and  English 
ous  composers 
lie  had  a  great 
re  enthusiastic 
brilliant  career 
jd  child.  How 
,re   creature   in 

have  the  work- 
B  '  obscure  little 
do  not  object, 
rintend  putting 
inderstand  the 
m  men  do." 

is  kind  and 
have  done  the 
ir  mother  will 
1  child  will  like 
)e  just  as  they 
will  seem  more 
garden  and  see 
aeo  and  Creasy 


A  r.ETTER  FROM  PARIS. 


297 


are  especially  interested   in   that  department,   and 
they  are  very  proud  of  the  improvements." 

"  Why  really,  it  is  lovely!"  cried  Madge.  "  You 
have  .nadu  this  little  wilderness  blossom  like  the 
rose,  and  the  court  is  charming.  How  happy 
Cousin  Louise  and  Seraph  will  be  when  thev 
return ! "  ^ 

"  Do  you  think  they  will  be  happy,  ma  chlre  ? 
Oh,  I  hope  they  will.  Yes,  I  hope  they  will.  I 
don't  mind  telling  you,  my  child,  because  I  am 
sure  you  are  discreet,  but  I  shouldn't  want  them 
to  know.  Lately,  I  have  worried  a  great  deal  for 
fear  Seraph  will  be  discontented  and  unhappy  in 
tbis  quiet  place  after  living  so  long  in  Paris." 

"Don't   be  afraid  of  that,  dear   Uncle  'Nidas." 
He  was  uncle,  now,  to  Madge,  as  well  as   to  all 
the  others.     "If    you   have   that   idea,  you    don't 
know  Seraph  as  well  as  I  do.      In  all  her  letters 
she  says  she  loves  her  little  home  better  than  any 
spot  on  earth.     She  is  a  sweet,  sincere  girl,  and 
you  must  remember  that  she  is  sixteen,  and  quite 
old  enough  to  know  her  own  mind.     I  know  she 
loves  her  friends  dearly,  and  you  the  best  of  all." 
"Thank    you,   my  dear,    thank    you,"    returned 
the  old  gentleman,  with  a  tremor  in    his    voice. 


fi*sui 


^1 


I 


298  SERAPH,   THE  LITTLE    VWLINISTE. 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  the  child  loves  me,  but  she  is  so 
beautiful  and  talented  that  I  cannot  expect  to 
keep  her  always.  She  will  be  known.  She  will 
be  famous.  Genius  cannot  be  hidden.  It  is  the 
light  of  the  earth.  It  belongs  to  humanity,  to 
one's  country,  to  the  world." 


'""ilM  k 


rsTE. 

but  she  is  so 
lot  expect  to 
wn.  She  will 
en.     It  is  the 

humanity,  to 


H^.  A.  m;ir  &•  Co.,  riihihhtri. 


(y. 


moni  77/ F.  A'.IJVG/i.  A  Story  for  Cirh.  Uy 
TilKoiM>KA  K.  Jknnkss.  315pp.  llluNtrated,  Cloth.  i2mo. 
I1.25. 

An  Indian  nlory  dir  KJrls.  A  mliaiiin  «ch(Mil  tor  llie  ilaiiKhlcra  of  the  Dakota  Iribai 
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woven  inlolhi!  ihreail  of  iju-  story,  wliirli  lells  how  a  little  white  ijlrl  wai  lirouuhl  up  as 
an  Indian  child,  educated  at  a  mission  ichoul,  and  wai finally  discovered  by  her  parents. 

CiEJiAPH,  rilK  LITTLE  VIOLINJSTE.  Uy  Mr.s.  C. 
^     V.Jamison.     298  pp.     Illustratotl.     Cloth,  |i. 50. 

A  most  charminK  .md  delightful  story  of  a  little  girl  who  had  inherited  a  mott  re- 
"Mfaable  musical  talent,  which  luuud  ii»  natural  expression  throuKh  the  medium  of  the 
violin.  The  picturesiiucness  of  Mrs.  Jamison's  stories  is  remarltable,  and  the  reader 
unconsciously  becimies  Seraph's  friend  and  sym|iathlier  in  all  her  trials  and  triumplit, 

CUTT  GrRL.S;  or.   One  Term  at  the  Academy.     By 
Charlottk  M.  Vaile.    316  pp.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  Ji. 50. 

I  ^'''  y*"*  K'*'"  "*  a  •'"'■y  I'efe  which  will  become  faminis  as  a  description  of  phaaa 
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A  most  attractive  and  interesting  story  by  a  writer  who  has  won  a  vast  audience  ol 
youiig  people  by  her  stories.  Malvern  is  a  small  suburban  town  in  New  Jersey.  The 
"••Shborhood  liimishes  a  queer  assortment  ol  boys  and  girls.  How  they  Icit  and  acted, 
what  they  did,  and  how  they  did  it,  forms  an  interesting  narrative. 

AD  Y  BETTY'S  TWLNS.     By  E.  M.  Waterworth. 

With  12  illustrations.     lib  pp.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

A  qiulnt  little  story  of  a  girl  — a  little  girl  — who  had  a  propensity  for  getting  into 
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"HE  MOONSTONE  RLNG.     By  Jennik  Chappell. 
With  6  full-page  illustrations.     116  pp.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

An  old  ring  plays  an  important  part  in  this  charming  little  story.  It  brings  together 
a  spoiled  child,  the  granddaughter  of  a  rich  and  indulgent  old  lady,  and  a  happy  little 
family  of  three,  who,  though  poor,  are  contented  with  their  lot.  This  acquaintance 
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"HE  MARJORLE  BOOKS.   6  vols.    Edited  by  Lucy 

Wheelock.     About  200  illustrations.     Price  of  set,  1(1.50. 

A  new  set  of  books  for  the  little  ones,  better,  if  possible,  than  even  Daft  Library, 
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Boston  :  IK  A.  WMe  <&•  Co.,  35  Brorn field  Street. 


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QUARTERDECK  &-  FOK'SLE.     By  Molly  Elliot 
Q     SEAWELL,   author  of   "Decatur  and  Somers."  etc.      272  PP- 
^"^    Illustrated.    $1.25. 

Ml..  Seawell  U..xc.ption.Uy  P«.ed  in  ttj.  »"V,Urrrhe"*,ot:,d  IT'^TLIV^^ 
people  at  the  «m.  lime,  and  many  »  .^"^  ?'  f.f^'^S  tirSe  in.  ruclive  and  high.pirited 
l'„1„t'.!°^r'on,"lm^uI.'aY^"«nptatro^wy^^  win  b.  r.«l  with  ..«.r 

intere.t.  —  CttHgrtgatioialist,  Boston. 


Botton:  W.A.  lyitUe  &'Co.,  13  Bromfield  Street. 


htrs. 


SERIES. 

>N. 

Sforjf  of  the  Timts 
M.5"- 

Biiln  iif  111"  llm«»;  In  palrlollc, 
iiciriiiK  I".  I  •'•  iKfiw"  »'• 
.  iiitrnilucctl.  ill*  leitom  "I 
hill  day.    ■  HdiIom  /'ruiiJiri/l. 

4/.S.  A  Story  of  the 
lied.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

•rits  Klvet  n  vivid  and  accural* 
'  iiiok  In,  the  evenU  which  ltd 
ihu  lime  ill  tie  a  i  ruihlng  defeat 
IS  <pf  aruunliig  the  Culuiilw  lu 

A  RATION. 


■HIES. 

JX. 

0/  l\vo  Boys  in  the 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

re  fheertully  ciinimend  the  book 
ihuuiing  the  reading  iur  young 

KOO.     Adventures  of 
nt.     31S  pp.     lllustratwfi. 

er  and  writer  of  boyi'  boi)l«i  of 

I  day>  before  hie  iiidden  diealh) 

t  inlerest.  .-ind  of  which  liotle  i» 

linent.  the  land  of  the  kangaroo, 

icribed. 

4NN0UNCKD  LA  TER. 

:.     By  Molly  Elliot 
[  Somers,"  etc.      272  pp. 

inatructing  and  ainiising  youiig 
ears  at  the  sound  of  her  name,  111 
me  instructive  and  high-spirited 
II,  and  will  b«  read  with  eager 


W.  A.  miili  >   ,'".,  I'uhlishtr' 


bumih  mho  afiMwit  series. 

Hy  Wii.i  lA  •  Drvsiiai.K.. 
'//A    YOi'NG  A'/'l/'Oh  r/iA'.     A  Story  of  J'rinting 

Ihiist  Squ,irt.     298  p|i.      Illustrated.     Clotii,#l.50. 

If  allbiiv»area»lnlereiiledlnlhUi kaslheiwrllcular  Ixiyin  orrowiifimlly,  lllelh* 

success  of  the  season.  Hick,  the  hor..,  >  a  s|il«ndid  fellow,  who  wcrks  hi«  wav  up  from 
reporting  ini.ill  m.illcrs  to  a  high  iiimltlon  as  an  aiithir  and  journalist.  It  teachM 
lessons  of  industry,  Hdellly,  and  tem4i«rance.  — /.i^ritrj"  HhIUHh,  New  York. 

*J//':  FAST  MAIL.    The  Story  of  a  Train  Hoy.    398  pp. 
Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1,50. 

The  birthright  of  every  American  boy  Is  the  aapeclalion  that  he  might  some- 
time become  President  of  ihe  I'niled  Stales.  Ilert  Walker  did  not  aspire  as  high 
as  this,  but  he  had  the  deleiinln.ilicm,  pluik,  and  rommon  sei»e  which  enabled 
him  to  («  a  successful  train  boy  and  a  railroad  man.  Any  boy  can  make  a»  niuch  of  * 
success  of  himself  as  Hert  W.ilkcr  ilid,  and  "  The  K.i»l  Mail  "  will  be  an  Inspiration  ol 
Iht  right  kind  to  thousands  of  boys  who  are  just  starting  out  in  life. 

\*OTHER  lOLUMKS  IN  I'RKI'ARAnOff. 


FIOHTIRQ  FOR  THE  FLMO  SERIES. 

By  Chas.  Lkdyard  Norton. 
C^ACK  BENSON'S  LOG,  or,  Afioat  with  the  Flag  in  '6 1 . 
J    276  pp.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

An  unusually  Interesting  historical  story,  and  one  that  will  arouse  Ihe  loyal  Impulses 
of  every  American  boy  or  girl.  The  story  is  distinctly  superior  to  anything  ever 
•tlempled  along  this  line  before.  —  THt  IndtftncUMi. 


A 


MEDAL  OF  HONOR  MAN;   or,  Cruising  among 
Blockade  Runners.     280  pp.     Illustrated.    Cloth,  |i. 25. 

This  second  of  Fiehling  for  Ike  Flag  books  takes  Jack  into  a  series  of  excltliig 
adventures  along  the  Horida  Sounds,  lie  interviews  Ihe  famous  Alabama  in  a  night 
chase  down  the  coast,  and  finally  is  decorated  by  his  captain  with  Ihe  Navy  Medal  ol 
Honor. 

•,»OTIfER  VOLUMES  IN  PREPARA  TION. 


rHE  MYSTERLOUS  VOYAGE  OF  THE 
DAPHNE.  By  Lieut.  H.  P.  Wihtmarsh,  R.  N.,  and  others. 
305  pp.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

This  volume,  mechanically  beautifid  as  to  type  and  paper,  i«  an  unusually  good  col- 
lection  of  short  stories,  and  is  well  and  freely  Illustrated.  Lieutenant  Whltmarsh  ctn- 
tributed  two  unique  sea  stories,  which  are  instructive  as  well  as  very  interesting.  Others 
are  by  the  best-known  writers  for  young  people  In  the  country.  — A'/*i«tfrM  Herald, 
Chicago. 


Bromjield  Street. 


Boston:  W.  A.  IViUe  &'  Co.,  ij  Bromfield  Street. 


IV.  A.  IViliie  &•  Co.,  PiiHisliefS. 


r 

|l 


F 


FOREMAN  JENNIE.     A  Young  Woman  of  ^"""f"- 
By  AMOS  R.  WELLS,  editor  of  The  Golden  A'uL:    A  new  edition. 
268  pp.     Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.25. 
This  is  a  book  Cor  .h..c  «ho  are  called  .he  ^;^workmg  peoj,k       p.N°p,P  wSl  hail 
rhoTand^wllh^'of^reVeTl^^^^^^^ 

riAP'N  THISTLETOP.     By  Sophie  Swett,  author  of 
C     "Mate  of  the  Mary  Ann,"  etc.     266  pp.     Illustrated.     «i.25- 

This  claim,  to  be  a  girls'  book,  but  the  boy  "h^j^"  se\hf  |i;l?wii^"ke^u^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

rkTG   CYPRESS.     By  Kirk  Munroe,  author  of  "Fur 
5    SeaVsToVth;""CampUes,"etc.    .64  pp.    Illustrated.   Cloth, 

The*sti°"is  so  fascinating  that  it  will  hold  the  absorbed  attention  of  every  boy  and 
^'''rt^^Cl^^;^I:t::o{X^^^<^^i  and  helpful  for  girls  as  for  boy..- 
Golden  Rult. 

"HE  BEACON  LIGHT  SERIES.  I  so\^-  Edited 
by  NATALIE  L.  RICE.  Illustrated.  Each  book,  96  PP-  Cloth. 
Price  of  set,  $2.50. 

A  collection  of  bri|ht,  attractive  stone,  from  the  best-known  writer,  for  young 
people  in  the  Junior  and  Intermediate  classes. 

prS  LIBRAR  Y.     10  vols.    Edited  by  Lucy  Whee- 

LOCK.     400  illustrations.     Price  of  set,  $2.50. 
Without  question  the  most  delightful  set  of  books  for  little  ones.    Over  400  illu.- 
trstions.  _____ 

PuTnTTKTfT'S.   ^FLECT  NOTES.     By  F.  N.  Pelou- 
^B^T   n  D    Tnf  nS    moUHET.    A  Commentaryon  the  In.er- 
^a^'oid  Sunday-school  Lessons.    Illustrated.    340  PP-     Cloth. 
^1.25. 

rAYS  OF  WORKING;  or.  Helpful  Hints  to  Sunday^ 
School  Workers  of  all  Kinds.  By  Rev.  A.  F.  Schauffler. 
D.  D.     216  pp.     Cloth,  III. 00. 


D 


W 


Boston:   \V.  A.  Wilde  &-  Co.,  25  Bromfield  Street. 


%%    f 


^^ ,         _     k 


''iiHishers. 

ittg  Woman  of  Business. 
loUen  KuU.    A  new  edition. 

'working  people."  No  people  of 
ndname.  All  good  people  will  hail 
focher,  Nashville. 

JoPHiE  SwETT,  author  of 

6  pp.     Illustrated.     jSi.25. 

does  not  take  it  all  in,  and  then  wish 
f  course  the  girls  will  like  it;  isn  t  it 
Iphia. 

[UN  ROE,  author  of  "  Fur 
,    164  pp.    Illustrated.   Cloth, 

absorbed  attention  of  every  boy  and 
,nd  helpful  for  girls  as  for  boys.— 

[ESSIE  E.  Wright,  author 
264  pp.     Illustrated.     Cloth, 

mothers, -that  God  will  be  with  the 
■  be  passing  through  the  fires  of  temp- 
York. 

IRIES.     5  vols.     Edited 
•d.    Each  book,  96  pp.    Cloth. 

im  the  best-known  writers  for  young 

.    Edited  by  Lucy  Whee- 

of  set,  $2.50. 

books  for  little  ones.    Over  400  illus- 


'OTES.    By  F.  N.  Pelou- 

r.    A  Commentary  on  the  Inter- 
,    Illustrated.    340  PP-     Cloth, 

r.  Helpful  Hints  to  Sunday 
By  Rev.  A.  F.  Schauffler, 


0.,  25  Bromfield  Street. 


3i 


*>■?■ 


*•' 


X 


